Downton Abbey & Zombies
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: What if the Zombie Apocalypse took place immediately following WWI? What if the poison gas used in WWI caused serious, biological repercussions, that brought the dead...back to life? What if the men and women of Downton Abbey, both upstairs and downstairs, had to unite to fight off a horde of flesh-eating monsters? Inspired by AMC's "The Walking Dead"
1. Renegades

_Ok! So, this idea came to me (just in time for Halloween!) after watching season 2 of AMC's "The Walking Dead"; I admit, it's probably the wackiest fanfic idea I've ever had, combining these two shows (which in truth, are polar opposites) but they say "opposites attract" and I just found myself thinking..._

_**WHAT IF** the Zombie Apocalypse took place, shortly after WWI? What if the poison gas used in WWI caused serious, biological repercussions, that brought the dead...back to life? What if our beloved Downton characters found themselves thrust into a world, where members from upstairs and downstairs, had to band together and unite, to fight off a horde of flesh-eating monsters? Needless to say, this is totally AU! :oP ;o)_

_Please keep in mind this is NOT a crossover story; you will not find characters from "The Walking Dead" in this story, but if you do watch that show, you will find some similar storylines/plot ideas/character traits from that show, making an appearance amongst the Downton characters. Also, some of the characters in this story are characters we have met (or will be meeting) in DA Series 3, while others will be from previous seasons. But at the end of the day, this story will follow its own timeline/plot._

_Right now I have 2 chapters; if there is a positive feeling for this story, I will continue it; however, if not, I'll remove it. YOU BE THE JUDGE! But please, do leave feedback, be it positive or negative, because only then will I know whether it's worth pursuing.  This story will begin with a **"T" rating**, due to violence, some language, and gory descriptions. It may get bumped up to "M" down the road, depending. Also, because this is a horror story, there will be some *major* character deaths here and there, so be prepared._

_Alright, enough babble; please leave feedback! THANK YOU! And without further ado..._

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**DOWNTON ABBEY & ZOMBIES**_**  
by The Yankee Countess**_

_Chapter One_

"**Renegades"**

They had been driving for what felt like hours.

He glanced over his shoulder at his brother, whose eyes were scanning the road around them, his fingers tightly gripping the rifle in his hands.

They would have to stop soon, to get more petrol. After the amount of driving they had done in this day alone, they had be running on fumes.

"We're going to need fuel soon."

"Just a little further…"

He sighed; he hated when his brother was dismissive like this. He glanced over at him again, taking in his tense posture and his narrowed eyes. He was in full on hunting mode; nothing was going to distract him…save one thing.

"I can't drive like this for much longer—"

"Shhh!"

He shut his mouth, and turned his eyes back to the road, his hand nearly pulling on the break lever as he saw exactly what his brother was seeing.

One of them.

…And where there was one, another wouldn't be too far away.

He watched as his brother slowly and silently leaned out the passenger window…cocking the rifle and pointing it directly at his target.

He wet his lips, looking nervously around them to see if he could spot another. This wasn't good; the road had been clear for hours, and they were heading further and further away from Liverpool.

"_It's safer where are there are less people…the rural areas are safer…"_

That was what everyone had told them. Of course, none of those people were alive, so how would they know?

He didn't see any others, but that didn't mean they weren't close. And if his brother fired that rifle, it would be like a church bell, ringing loud and clear that supper was ready.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," he whispered.

His brother didn't say anything; he continued to follow his target with the end of his rifle.

"They'll hear you!"

"Then shut up!" his brother hissed.

He suppressed the groan, and merely locked his fingers around the break lever, prepared to release it and get them out of there as quickly as possible if the need arose. And a warning feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that the need would be there.

A blast erupted the air.

His eyes flew to where his brother's rifle had been pointing, and he watched as the creature stumbled backwards, before falling into a lifeless heap on the ground; not even a twitch.

"Got it," his brother murmured, pulling himself back inside the car.

He turned and looked at him, scowling deeply. He released the break and quickly started the car running once again; thank God there was still enough fuel for that. He didn't even bat an eye when the tire ran over what was left of the creature's head.

"That was stupid," he muttered under his breath.

His brother, who was still keeping a look out, had relaxed slightly, and was wearing that annoying, cock-sure grin that he only put on when he believed he was right. "What was?"

"You know what."

"Oh please…" he dug a hand into his pocket and took out a cigarette. "Killed it, didn't I?"

"Was it necessary?"

His brother frowned. "What kind of question is that?"

He rolled his eyes. "There could have been more; your rifle would have alerted them to our whereabouts!"

His brother proceeded to light his cigarette, not looking upset in the slightest. "While you were driving, I was searching; if it did belong to a herd, it got separated a long time ago."

He rolled his eyes again. "Even if that were true, then you wasted a perfectly good bullet; our ammunition is low enough; weren't you the one who told me to save as many bullets as possible? If there's only one, then use your knife?"

His brother blew out a long, thick cloud of smoke. "So you do listen to me once and a while…"

He glared at him. He was wasting his breath; he should just be happy that it only took one bullet to take the monster down, and that an entire herd weren't upon. No, what he should focus on was the harsh and frightening reality…

That even here, in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside…they couldn't escape them.

"Are you sure about York?"

His brother exhaled another cloud of smoke. "I'm not sure about anything anymore, Tommy."

He hated that name; it made him feel like a child. It also reminded him of his mother. He missed his mother. He missed his home.

"But the others said—"

"I know what they said, I was there," his brother growled, before exhaling another long cloud of smoke. "Just keep driving."

Keep driving. That seemed to have become their mantra. If York didn't have the answers, then they would keep traveling in search of a place that did. The question was, how many places did that leave them with?

"We will still need to get fuel, Kieran."

"I know, Tommy, I heard you the first time," his brother muttered, taking another long drag from his cigarette. "But for now, let's keep driving."

He sighed and did just that. His brother was clearly lost in his thoughts, and he didn't really want to know what he was thinking. The last time he had tried to find out, he had been shocked and horrified by the truth.

"It will be dark soon…" he murmured, looking up at the setting sun.

"Aye," his brother answered.

"What do you propose we do when that happens?"

Kieran shrugged his shoulders and tossed the remainders of his cigarette out the window. "When I know, I'll tell you."

How like his brother to reply in such a way.

"But there's nothing to worry about, Tommy; you know that."

He ignored the nickname and simply nodded his head. "Aye."

Kieran smiled and for the first time since this conversation began, turned his eyes and locked them with his. "And why is that?"

Tom sighed, before returning his gaze to the road. "Because we're brothers."

"Not just any brothers, Tommy," Kieran chuckled, before reloading his rifle. "The Branson brothers."

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_Yep, I decided to use Kieran in this story! PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! I will be posting Chapter 2 immediately following the posting of this._


	2. Awake

_Chapter 1 was for all intents and purposes was a prologue; now we'll begin to get into the meat of what's going on. Thanks again for reading! Please leave a comment and share your thoughts, whatever they may be!_

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_Chapter Two_

"**Awake"**

They say that when you're in a coma, you don't dream. Of course, the people who usually say that aren't in comas. Perhaps you do dream, but you just don't remember? Or maybe the trauma was so great, you choose not to remember? Whatever the case may be, Matthew Crawley did dream, and it was the same dream he lived over and over…

_The Somme. He was leading a group of men onto the battlefield. Amazingly, it was easier leading those men out onto the field, because the alternative was to hide in the trenches, where it made it easier for the enemy to gas them. Better to face your death with a bullet while standing on your feet, than shivering in the mud, coughing away your life as it was robbed from your lungs. _

_ With a cry, he led the men over the trench, into the heart of No Man's Land. Bullets flew every which way; grenades were thrown; mud exploded; men fell. But those that still stood continued running; running and firing and shouting._

_ It wasn't a bullet that struck him. He was pushed out of "harm's way" by another soldier, just when the explosion happened. Down he fell, down into a pit of mud and blood. He heard bones crack, he felt the air knock out of his lungs, and then everything went black. And it remained so…_

…Until today.

Light…the tiniest of rays, somehow managed to creep through his eyelids…

A hoarse groan escaped his chest, and his eyes squinted shut as the light quickly became too much, too soon.

His head throbbed. His entire body throbbed. His throat was dry, and he had the most desperate thirst. Despite the stinging pain of the light, Matthew managed to open his eyes once more…and soon, the blurs around him began to settle…and he realized where he was.

In a hospital; lying on a hospital bed.

Matthew groaned again as he pushed the thin sheet off his chest. His muscles ached from the slightest movement, and his throat screamed for water. "H-h-hel…" he found it very difficult to formulate any words; he felt like a newborn, learning how to use its lungs. "H-h-h-help…"

No response.

He turned his head, but soon realized he was alone in the room.

How strange, he thought. The hospitals always seemed to be overwhelmed with the amount of wounded men; it was a rare thing indeed to have a room without at least four or five other patients.

That was another thing that struck him; the quiet. It was very quiet—too quiet, to be honest.

"H-h-h-help…" he managed to murmur again. He knew his voice was soft, but surely someone would be able to hear him, based on how quiet it was. Weren't there nurses in the corridor? He listened, very carefully, and frowned when he realized he didn't even hear footsteps.

Matthew's fingers gripped the edges of his bed, and every muscle in his body protested to the point that he was ready to cry out in pain, as he moved one leg…followed by the other…stiffly, off the bed.

Once his feet were on the ground, he now had the job of sitting up, which proved to be an easier task in one's mind, than in reality. He truly was like a newborn child, helpless in every way. Why wasn't anyone else there? Why hadn't anyone passed the room? The door was closed, yes, but...didn't anyone make rounds to check on patients? It was the middle of the day, judging from the light coming in through the curtained window.

He wasn't sure how long it took (too long, no doubt) but eventually…he managed to rise from the bed. With a deep breath, he gripped the posts…as he began to hoist himself to his feet.

"Oh God!" he gasped, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. If he hadn't been holding onto the posts, he certainly would have, and he doubted he would be able to get back up. _Careful_, he found himself thinking. _One step at a time…_

For another lengthy amount of time, he stood there, gripping the bedposts with his hands, as his legs wobbled beneath him, getting used to being used once again. How long had he been lying there? Surely no more than a few days, at most. And yet…he felt as if weeks had passed…or months.

_Water_; his throat burned for it and he wasn't going to find it here. He needed to leave this room and find someone, anyone. With another deep breath, he moved one foot…releasing his hold on the bedposts…and then moved the other…his steps slow, but managing to keep him upright, thank the Lord.

He was dressed in what could only be described as pajamas. Under any other circumstance, it would be embarrassing, but all he cared about was finding someone and finding a glass of water. He managed to make it over to the door and pushed against it.

It didn't move. Something was blocking it.

No, no, no, he wasn't going to be stuck in here! He pushed again, but it still wouldn't budge. Matthew felt his jaw clench and his fingers made a fist, which began to pound, softly at first, and then with growing ferocity. He couldn't very well shout for someone to come and help him, but perhaps they would hear him knocking?

He began to use both fists, and he continued pounding harder and harder. Where was everyone? Why hadn't someone come? Surely he could be heard? Surely someone would complain about the noise in another room? Or come to investigate? But even as he pounded on the door, he still couldn't hear any approaching footsteps, or shouts from doctors or nurses.

…And then the door opened.

His pounding must have somehow done the trick, because he nearly fell forward by the sudden movement. No, there was no one on the other side of the door, no one had come to open it…but someone had, at one point, put up a barricade.

Matthew regained his balance and looked down at the various items that had been blocking the door—a few wheelchairs whose wheels had been locked; an overturned table; several rubbish bins. But he didn't have time to process why these items had been left in front of his door, because he was too busy taking in the chaos of the corridor.

It was a complete mess. Furniture lying on their sides, bandages and medical supplies strewn across the floor; and blood…puddles of what could only be dried blood, caked the tiles.

His hand flew to his mouth, a sudden wave of nausea overwhelming him. He closed his eyes and took in a few, shallow breaths, trying his best to regain his composure. Good God in heaven…what had happened here? Was some sort of emergency surgery conducted in this very hall? He opened his eyes and realized, once more, that there were no people there. He and these macabre images were all that occupied the lonely corridor.

He began moving, icy fingers of apprehension running down his back. He needed to leave; something wasn't right and he needed to leave, now.

His steps were still slow, but he moved to the best of his abilities, his hands sliding along the wall to keep his balance and to keep him moving forward. He passed another room, its door ajar. Matthew would have ignored it, had something not caught his eye.

A water pitcher!

He needed a drink, badly. He pushed the door opened and entered the room, pausing as he took in the scene of overturned beds. Something awful had happened here, but his thirst compelled him to move towards the pitcher, not caring that the water looked old and murky; he just needed to wet his throat. There were no glasses, but that didn't matter. He picked up the pitcher and brought it to his lips, ready to empty it of its contents…when something else caught his eye.

The pitcher fell to the ground, shattering everywhere, the water sloshing all over the floor…but Matthew stood, his eyes transfixed…on the body lying in the corner.

He suddenly found himself back on the battlefield. Images—ghastly and horrifying—of men, lying on their sides, some dead, others in agony, as their bodies had been torn apart, pieces of themselves lying every which way. The ones who were still living, were desperately trying to put themselves back together, while the ones who were dead lay there, exposed for the world to see.

This body was dead…but whatever had killed the poor wretch hadn't been caused by any weapon Matthew knew. No…it looked…it looked as if the man had been torn apart…by…something with _teeth_.

He hissed as his toe made contact with a piece of glass. He should have looked for shoes before leaving the room, but he would worry about that later. Whatever had happened here had been bad, VERY bad, and it would only get worse if he stayed.

Matthew stumbled back into the hallway, propelling himself forward, around a corner, down another cluttered corridor, the smell of dead bodies filling the air. Oh God, please let him find a door out of this place before coming across another monstrosity like he had seen in that room!

And he did find a door…but it was barred.

Chains.

The door had large, thick ropes of chain looped through its handles. And there were boards nailed to the wall, boards that were nailed across the door.

And someone had painted a warning on one of those boards.

**DO NOT OPEN. DEAD INSIDE.**

Only…that couldn't be right. Because if there were dead inside…then why was the door _moving?_

Matthew's eyes widened…as a pair of pale fingers managed to slip through a tiny crack between the doors. Good God…someone was in there!

He opened his mouth, feeling he should say something to the poor chap trapped inside the room…but a voice in his head told him to stay away from it. After all, the words on the door warned him not to open it. But…why? Whoever was in there wasn't dead! How did they get in there in the first place? _Why_ were they in there? Had the ones who chained the door and boarded it shut know that someone was in there? Was it someone like him? Someone who had been asleep for…God knows how long…and who had just woken up?

God almighty, the poor fellow! To awaken in a crypt! He had to get the man out; he had to help whoever was trapped in there!

But the fingers were soon joined by another…and then another hand. Three hands were attempting to open the door. There was more than one person inside? The door began to rattle…and Matthew realized that whoever was in there…was pushing, just as he had done. But the pushing wasn't desperate, the way his had been. It was…slower. And he could hear…_moaning_.

It was an unearthly sound. And it chilled him to the core.

Matthew found himself backing away from the door. That other voice, the voice that had warned him to keep away was screaming at him_: get out! Get away from this place and don't ever come back!_

In any other circumstances, he would have felt ashamed for letting his caution and fear get the better of him; but right now, he listened, and continued to back away, moving further and further away from that door, as the moans grew louder, and the pounding increased.

One more turn and he found an exit. He pushed the doors open, and gasped as the brightness of the mid-day sun hit his eyes.

He was outside.

And he was in London! Or the outskirts of the city; he could see the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral in the distance.

But the streets were deserted.

And messy.

There was garbage everywhere. And…windows had been broken. Signs of vandalism littered the streets, along with old newspapers and…various forms of human filth.

One newspaper was crumpled at his feet. Matthew bent down to pick it up, his mind still in a confused daze from the unbelievable sights around him.

_November 11, 1918._

NOVEMBER! It had been April before his injury. He…he had been asleep…_for eight months?_

He dropped the paper and let it fly away with the breeze. Oh God, what had happened? Had…had the Axis won? Was this what had become of Britain? Destroyed in some horrible battle? He stumbled away from the hospital…and began moving, as quickly as his numb feet would allow, down the street, hoping to see some semblance of…of _Life!_

…And he found it.

Or so he thought.

He had not gone but the length of one entire street, before he saw someone, moving slowly, like him, down an ally.

A woman.

She was hunched over, and her feet were bare. From the back, her appearance looked haggard. Her hair was loose, and hanging limply down her back. Her dress was torn at the legs, and it looked absolutely filthy.

Had she also woken up into this nightmare?

Matthew's throat burned, but despite that, he took a deep breath and somehow managed to call out to the woman. "Hello?" he croaked, before erupting into a violent cough.

The woman paused, and lifted her head, ever so slightly.

Matthew coughed once more, as it was the closest thing he could do to clearing his throat. "Hello?" he called out again, his voice growing a little louder.

The woman began to turn her body.

"I'm…I'm sorry, I…I need help, and…please, can you tell me—"

Any further words he had been about to murmur were lost when the woman lifted her head and met his eyes.

They were ghostly pale, her eyes; an inhuman color. So was her skin; pale, with a tint of blue…save for the blood spattered on her cheeks…and chin…and shoulders. And her nose was missing…as well as a piece of her jaw.

She opened her mouth, and made a low, hissing groan.

She began to move towards him. Her steps were slow, but they were determined.

Matthew began to back away...

The woman continued.

He kept backing away, his steps growing faster, but she continued to follow. Her hands reached out in front of her, reaching out to him, and that was when he turned and began to run…or at least, run as best as his feet would allow.

He glanced behind him and his eyes widened as he realized…she was still in pursuit! Her steps, which were staggered and slower than his, were beginning to pick up speed. And suddenly, he noticed another woman, one who looked very similar, joined his pursuer, also moaning and reaching out towards him.

Matthew kept running, his feet aching beneath the cobblestones. He wasn't going to escape them, not in a footrace. He needed to hide, or at the very least, confuse them! He gritted his teeth and forced himself to go down an ally, pushing through the pain of anything that was on the ground which his bare feet ran across. He pushed over a few rubbish bins to slow his pursuers, and then quickly stumbled out of the ally's other end…

Only to encounter Hell.

There were more. More like those women. People...wandering and stumbling…young and old…male and female…their faces bearing scars of every ghastly kind imaginable. They had been feeding, and he had interrupted their supper.

A dead creature…a horse by the look of it…was lying on its side, ripped apart by these…_things_…but his sudden arrival took away their interest in the horse, and now they began to rise to their feet to come after him.

"Stay back!" Matthew hoarsely shouted, trying to stumble away, but only managing to stumble and fall onto his back.

They were swarming! How many were there? He didn't know, just…too many!

He was trying to get on his feet, but they were approaching too quickly and one grabbed his leg and actually tried to take a bite out of it! He kicked his leg out into the creature's throat, causing it to fall back, allowing him to turn over onto his hands and knees and begin crawling away, as fast as he could, but another creature made a grab for him, and another, and another!

"GET OFF ME!" he shouted, but they only continued coming after him. He balled his fist and punched one in the jaw, just before its teeth made contact with his flesh. Surely this was a nightmare? Some outlandish, hellish, nightmare! He shoved and punched and kicked, but they kept coming! Nothing seemed to faze them, they just kept coming back!

A crash filled the air.

The horde of demons momentarily paused in their pursuit and turned their heads to the sound, giving Matthew a chance to scramble out of arms reach. The next thing that happened was a bottle of whisky, with a flaming handkerchief attached, landed just in front of one of the creatures, crashing on the ground and enfolding the thing in flames, causing it to scream and flail.

Several others who were near it also caught on fire, and then another bottle fell, adding more fire to the fray. Gunshots erupted, and Matthew gasped as two of the things fell to the ground, blood and tissue smearing the pavement.

An arm shot out and grabbed his elbow. Matthew spun around, ready to strike, but was stopped short by a frying pan…which made an ungraceful clunk on his head.

It wasn't enough of a blow to knock him senseless, but it did cloud his vision…and he felt himself being pulled away from the howling mob that was both on fire and being shot at. He heard a voice calling out to him, a woman's voice, telling him to just follow her, begging him not to pass out, telling him to keep his eyes open, to follow her voice, to keep moving, to keep moving!

And he did. He followed the blurry woman all the way until he collapsed inside what could only have been a wagon. He tried to look at the woman as she leaned over him, but before her face could come into focus, she threw a blanket on top of him. He heard her shout something, but it was hard to tell. Then, he felt his body and the wagon being jerked forward, the horses shrieking as their driver commanded them to pick up speed.

That was all he remembered. Once again, blackness took hold of him. He only prayed that when he awoke again, the nightmare would be over.


	3. Explanation

_The votes are in, and so far, it's an overwhelming "YES" to continue this story, so that is what I am going to do! :oP THANK YOU to everyone out there you left a comment and shared their thoughts; also thank you to everyone who did give it a read; I hope that if you choose to keep reading, you continue to enjoy! While yes, I am a "Sybil/Branson" shipper at heart, this story is "multi-ships", meaning you will see many of the canon 'ships from the show presented here, so even if you're not as into Sybil/Branson as I am, that's ok! Hopefully you'll find a decent representation from your favorite pair somewhere along the way!_

_This chapter was tough to write, because I was (still am, actually) on an emotional "high" after viewing my other favorite TV show, "Once Upon a Time" and my other favorite OTP have some *great* scenes on screen, that it was tough getting my head around "horror" when I sat down to write. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy and please, leave a comment and let me know what you think! THANKS!_

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_Chapter Three_

"**Explanation"**

_"I'm…I'm sorry, I…I need help, and…please, can you tell me—"_

_ The woman turned to face him, and his mouth fell open at the sight of her._

_ Dark hair, mahogany in color…pale, ivory skin…large, dark brown eyes…_

_ He couldn't breathe; was it possible?_

_ He opened his mouth to say her name, but he couldn't hear his voice; there was a terrible ringing in his ears._

_ She took a step towards him, her arms reaching out. He took a step towards her, also extending his arms. Was she real? Could he touch her? How many nights did he dream of this moment? Of seeing her again and begging her forgiveness for leaving so abruptly? How many times did he worry that he would die in that trench, before seeing her face, hearing her voice, and telling her his heart? He could feel tears running down his cheeks, but he didn't care; he reached for her and murmured her name in happy relief—_

_ She opened her mouth and a horrible howl escaped her lips._

_ The lovely, ivory flesh began to peel, and then decay before his very eyes. _

_ Her rich, mahogany hair became limp and lifeless; the light in her eyes disappeared._

_ He stared in horror as her nose fell…and her jaw fell open as if it were broken._

_ Good God, she looked like…like…like his corpse!_

_ No, no…not her, not that beauty. Not his sweet—_

"Sir? Wake up…wake up, it's alright…"

_She was reaching for him…her hands were claws, and they wanted to grab him. She was screaming for him, in pain, in hunger! She was covered in blood, and there were bodies strewn across her feet! _

"Wake up! It's a dream, you're dreaming!"

Matthew heard the voice calling to him, and felt the cold cloth sliding across his face. His body jerked to life, as one does when they dream of falling. His eyes flew open and he gasped, as if he had been held under water. He looked around, frantically, as if searching for her. Was she there? Was she nearby? Where had she gone? Where was he?

"Calm down, it's alright…it's alright…"

His eyes flew to the person speaking to him, and he jerked back, only to realize he was lying on a chaise.

"Shhh, it's alright," the woman whispered. "You're safe, you're safe…" she kept repeating the words over and over, and she held up her hands as a sign that she meant him no harm.

Matthew was breathing erratically, and his eyes kept flying around the room. Where was he? He didn't recognize this place. And who was this woman? He had never seen her before, but she had been leaning over him, applying a cool cloth to his head when he awoke.

"W-w-who?" he stammered, before a violent cough took hold.

The woman quickly rose to her feet, and went to the other end of the room, where she poured a glass of water from a pitcher. Matthew's eyes widened at the gift of water to which she brought him, and he snatched it quickly out of her hands and began to guzzle the cool liquid down this throat, causing him to cough more.

"Careful," the woman whispered, her hands moving to cover his, which were shaking. "Drink slowly…or else you'll bring it all back up."

Her hands were soft, and they held his steady. He looked at her as he drank, and decided that while he had no idea who she was, she could be trusted, and therefore nodded his head, and began to drink slower.

She didn't remove her hands until he had finished drinking, and then gently coaxed his hands to release the glass, before rising and going to pour him another. "Would you like more?"

"God yes," he gasped, his throat still burning for the water's healing coolness. There weren't words that could describe the terrible thirst he felt.

She smiled and poured him another, before once again returning to his side. "Now…you must drink this slowly…do you promise?"

Matthew nodded his head, and this time when she handed him the glass, she didn't cover his hands. Instead, she seated herself once more on a cushion upon the floor, where she had been kneeling when he awoke. "I was afraid that maybe I had struck you too hard," she murmured with a small, nervous giggle. "I do apologize…that does seem to be a rather nasty looking bruise."

Matthew's brow furrowed in confusion, and then he winced as felt a dull throb of pain at the top of his brow line.

_The frying pan._ Yes…yes, this was the _same_ woman who had struck him, before taking his arm and leading him to a wagon. Before, his vision had been blurred by her…rather well aim…and he hadn't been able to make out any of her features. But as she spoke, he was able to recognize her voice, and now he was able to see who his unexpected "rescuer" was.

She was petite; with fine-boned features and soft, pale skin. There was a slight rosy-hue to her cheeks, and her eyes were an interesting shade of bluish-green. Her hair was reddish-gold, with flecks of copper. She also looked quite young; certainly no older than twenty-one or twenty-two.

"Lavinia," she murmured, the rosy-hue in her cheek brightening more.

He blinked, and felt his own cheeks flame with color. "I…I'm sorry?"

She smiled and looked down at her hands, which were playing with the apron she wore. "My name…it's Lavinia."

Matthew tried to sit up, suddenly feeling as if he should stand, but doubting his legs would allow. So instead, he tried to sit up a little straighter. "Captain Crawley," he murmured back, although he wondered why he was being so "official" in giving his name.

Lavinia's eyes widened slightly, but her smile grew wider as well. She opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped short at the sound of the floorboards creaking behind her. She turned her head, and Matthew lifted his eyes, feeling the color drain from his face as he looked at the older gentleman standing the doorway, his hand gripping the handle of a pistol, that rested against his thigh.

"Papa!" the woman, Lavinia, admonished at the sight of her father and the gun. "You'll frighten our guest—"

"Who is no doubt very hungry," the man muttered, his eyes never leaving Matthew's. "My dear, why don't you see to the broth that is simmering in the kitchen?"

Lavinia nibbled her bottom lip, and then glanced back at Matthew. He looked at her, his eyes almost pleading that she stay; there was something about the older man that unnerved him, and the fact that he was holding a gun that could be used on him at any moment, wasn't helping to calm him, either.

But Lavinia didn't try to argue; she simply rose to her feet and gave both men a parting smile, before turning and disappearing around the corner in what could only be the direction to the very kitchen her father had mentioned.

"She's a good girl," her father murmured after she had gone, his eyes still studying Matthew. "Never argues, always does what she's told…"

Matthew swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and nodded his head. He tried to mentally put himself in the older gentleman's shoes; a strange man, lying unconscious in your house, your daughter leaning over him, speaking somewhat intimately to him—yes, Matthew could see why it might make a man keep a pistol nearby.

"I…I…I'm sorry," he began, his voice stammering slightly from both nervousness, and exhaustion.

The man's brow furrowed. "Sorry?"

Matthew nodded his head. "I…I don't know how I came to be here, but…thank you, for…for your help, and…and your hospitality…" They seemed like the right words to say; the truth was, he was at an utter loss because he had no idea what was going on! He accepted the fact that Lavinia had been the one to hit him over the head with the frying pan, and that she had been the one to lead him away from…from those things, and he could deduce that he must be in her home, along with her father, but…he was still confused as to WHY this was all happening! What WERE those things? What on earth had happened to those people? Why had they attacked him? What had happened to London?

"I can see the questions on your face, Captain Crawley," the man murmured, his own gaze steady and intense. "Clearly you are a man who somehow managed to fall asleep while the world was still sane…but have only now woken up to the Hell it has become."

Matthew swallowed and simply nodded his head. What else could he do? Was this real? Had all of that…been real?

"Reginald Swire," the man introduced, extending a hand to Matthew before sitting down on a nearby chair.

Matthew shook the older man's hand, although the muscles in his arm and hand were still trembling from the lack of nourishment, as well as the lack of calm he was feeling. "Matthew Crawley," he replied, deciding to be a little less official with Mr. Swire.

"Ah, a name to go with the good captain," the older man smiled, his grip relaxing slightly on the pistol. "Forgive me, but you still sound quite hoarse." He reached over and poured a third glass of water, before handing it to Matthew. "I gather…it's been quite a while since you last ate or drank anything…?"

Matthew didn't know how to answer that. The last thing he remembered was charging the battlefield, bombs and guns blazing all around him, men falling, including the man who fell into him, knocking him unconscious. When he awoke, he found himself alone in a strange hospital, where there were signs of struggle and decay all around him, and when he found that newspaper, if it was to be believed, it declared that somehow he had been unconscious for…well, for a very long time.

How did this happen? _What_ had happened, exactly?

"You were a soldier in the War?"

Matthew lifted his eyes to Mr. Swire's, shaken once more from his thoughts. "I…I was…" he began, before taking a drink from his glass. "I enlisted shortly after it was declared; became a captain in 1916, just before the Somme."

Mr. Swire nodded his head. "I was a soldier too, once. The Boer War," he said with a sigh. "It's probably best if…you tell me what you last remember…"

Matthew swallowed, unsure if he was ready for whatever answer Mr. Swire had to give him. "I…I was leading a group of men into battle; it was the Somme, again; April."

Mr. Swire nodded his head. "Not as bloody as 1916, from what I heard."

Matthew took another drink from his glass. "I don't know how one can measure blood against blood," he whispered. "They were _all_ bloody, as far as I can tell."

"Very true," Mr. Swire sighed, rising from his chair and moving to the table where the water pitcher lay. Only it wasn't water that he poured for himself, but an amber brown liquid. "It's probably not wise to give you something with alcohol," he murmured as he began to pour two glasses of scotch. "But…you may appreciate it, once I tell you what you need to know."

"What _do_ I need to know?" Matthew demanded, attempting to rise from the chaise, but he moved too quickly, and he could feel his knees begin to buckle.

"Easy," Mr. Swire advised.

Matthew shook his head. "No, I…I don't understand what's happening!" he all but shouted. "What…what was that, back there? What happened to those people? Why…why did they…?" the frightful images of what he saw began to blur with the horrible nightmare he had just woken from. Good God, what was real anymore?

Mr. Swire returned to his chair, holding both glasses of scotch. "Finish your story, Captain Crawley; it will be easier if I know how long you've been away."

Matthew gritted his teeth, trying to keep his mind from going mad, although he didn't know if that was something a man could control. "As I said, it was this past April; I was leading a group of men into battle and…there were grenades flying everywhere, and…I don't know what happened, I just…either I was pushed or someone was shot and fell into me, but the last thing I remember was falling into a bloody pit, and…and then I woke up, today, in a hospital—" he paused, worry suddenly clouding his mind. "Oh God…it was…it was _today_, wasn't it? I mean, I haven't—"

"You've only been asleep for a few hours, Captain," Mr. Swire calmly reassured. "I think your body has had enough sleep, to be honest."

Under any other circumstance, Matthew may have laughed at the man's attempt for light humor, but his head was throbbing, and he doubted it was all because of Miss Swire's frying pan. "What happened, Mr. Swire? I…I awoke and…and no one was there! It was as if the place had been abandoned! And not just the hospital, but…I've never seen London look like…like _that_, before!" He finished the rest of his water, and then gasped for air, while running a shaking hand through his hair and trying to banish the horrifying images from his mind. "Please…please, tell me, what's going on? Did…" he swallowed the lump in his throat and looked imploringly into the older man's face. "Did England fall?"

Mr. Swire sighed and took Matthew's empty water glass from his trembling hands. "You've been asleep for a long time, Captain Crawley," he began. "It's a miracle, really, that you've survived this long. My guess is that the hospital was one of the last places to…to succumb, and some dedicated nurse or two were doing their best to keep your heart beating while the world erupted into madness." He paused to take a drink from his own glass of scotch. "Captain…you're familiar with the gas that was used in the War?"

New images came to Matthew's mind; images of men coughing to death in trenches while the deathly fumes filled the air. Images of blood, mixed with bile and phlegm, pouring out of men's mouths as they fell to their knees, gasping and groaning in pain, before the gas finally claimed them to the ever-growing list of the dead. Oh yes…he was familiar with that monstrosity.

"That gas changed warfare," Mr. Swire continued. "They had nothing like it when I fought; no war in known history has ever had such a weapon. From what I understand, scientists, from both sides, worked for…for years, trying to perfect it, trying to create the most deadly…batch…so that once it filled a trench, an entire unit would be dead within minutes, mask or no mask." He paused again and took another drink from his glass. Matthew watched the man and noticed that Mr. Swire's hands were now trembling. "The War had taken so many lives…an entire generation lost…" he murmured, his eyes staring off into the distance. "They would do anything, either side; anything to bring this bloodshed to an end…"

Matthew was leaning forward, trying to catch every word of Mr. Swire's haunting tale. "What…what does that have to do…?"

Mr. Swire turned and looked into Matthew's eyes, his gaze dark and penetrating. Matthew felt his body go cold at the look, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"They thought they had created the perfect weapon. They thought they had found the means to end the War; and not just this war, but any war from ever happening again! But what they didn't realize…what _no one_ realized…were the effects that such a weapon could have."

Matthew swallowed, trying to push past the cold fingers that seemed to be clutching his throat. "But…but surely the effects would be…death."

Mr. Swire leaned away, and without a word, handed Matthew the other glass. He took it, not daring to drink it, not yet…but had a feeling he would be, very soon.

"If only," Mr. Swire whispered. He took a long, deep drink, finishing the last of the scotch. "What you saw today, Captain, in the streets…was just a sample of what that weapon has done."

Matthew's eyes narrowed, confusion washing over his face…and fear gripping his heart. "But…but those weren't soldiers, those were…civilians! People, ordinary people—"

"Not anymore," Mr. Swire sighed, rising from his chair and going for the bottle of scotch once again. "The men who were poisoned did die…but they didn't _stay_ dead."

"What?" Matthew sputtered, nearly dropping his scotch. "What does that mean? What are you talking about—"

"What did you see, Captain Crawley?" Mr. Swire rounded on him. "Today, in the streets, and in the hospital where you awoke, what did you see?" Matthew stared, wide-eyed in shock; he wanted to answer, but no sound was able to come out. "I know what you saw…" Mr. Swire continued. "You saw what were once ordinary people…but who are now walking corpses!"

"But that's impossible!"

"Is it?" Mr. Swire countered. "I know you've been asleep for a very long time, Captain, but this isn't a dream; you are awake. And while I am sorry that this was the world to which you woke up in, it is the world as it is now, so it's best to accept it."

Silence filled the room, and Matthew found himself staring down into the swirling contents of his glass. Images of the woman he encountered in the ally, her nose and jaw missing. Images of the mob eating the dead horse, before they rose to attack him. Images of the dead body he found in the hospital room, and the blood that caked its tiled floors. Images of the door that warned anyone who came across it not to open it…and the fingers that were pushing on the other side, moaning for freedom…

God in heaven…was it possible?

"I asked the same thing when it all began," Mr. Swire whispered, as if reading Matthew's thoughts. "But then…I began to see what was happening to my friends, my neighbors, my—" he paused and looked away, as if trying to get a hold of himself. "Those men who were gassed during the War…they didn't stay dead, Captain. They rose, and they attacked, and they infected everyone they came into contact with."

"Infected?" Matthew whispered.

Mr. Swire nodded his head. "If they bite you…you're as good as dead."

Matthew sat up straighter at this news. How close had he come to being bitten? Too close! He remembered how that horde swarmed around him and attacked; he remembered how several of them nearly had sunken their teeth into his flesh, but by some miracle, he had managed to get away before they succeeded. Lord Almighty, he could have been infected! He…he could have…

_…Become one of them._

Without a word, Matthew lifted his scotch to his lips and took a shaky drink, pushing the alcohol down his still-healing throat. During the War, the men all agreed they would rather die on the field, than find themselves on a surgeon's table. It would have been better to be devoured by that horde as that horse had been…than to suffer a single bite, only to become…become…

He took another drink.

"Is there a way to stop it?"

Mr. Swire took a drink from his newly poured glass. "The brain."

Matthew frowned. "The brain?"

Mr. Swire nodded his head. "Destroy the brain; that's only way to kill them."

Matthew felt bile rise in the back of his throat, but he took a steadying breath and put his scotch aside. As tempting as it was, now was not the time to let alcohol dull his senses. "How…how do you know?"

Mr. Swire chuckled at this. "You think my daughter and I have managed to live this long without gaining some knowledge on survival?" He lifted his glass as one would to make a toast. "Shoot them in the chest, they may slow down, but they will continue walking. Shoot them in the head, they'll remain on the ground, and never rise again, not even a twitch."

Matthew's stomach twisted at this knowledge, although he was grateful to have it. "But…I mean, is there way to stop the infection from spreading?"

Mr. Swire's smile faded, and he sighed once again before returning to the chair he had been occupying. "If there is…no one knows."

That didn't make sense. "But…clearly this…this _disease_…has spread beyond the battlefield; innocent civilians are being infected, and if what you say is true, then it's not just here in Britain but…but everywhere!"

"Yes, everywhere," Mr. Swire whispered, his eyes once again looking off into the distance.

Matthew's hand shot out and gripped the older man's arm. "How is that possible? How is it possible that something like this continues? Surely those same scientists had…had some sort of antidote prepared—"

Mr. Swire began laughing and Matthew stared at the man in horror, as if he had lost his mind. "Antidote?" he laughed. "Why would anyone create an antidote…for death?"

Matthew closed his eyes, his hands coming up and fisting themselves in his hair. What the man was saying was true, of course. The gas was meant to kill; no one had any idea of the repercussions that such a weapon could have. No one would think it was possible! It WASN'T possible!

…And yet…he knew it to be true. What other explanation could there be to what he had seen today?

"Someone…someone out there must have an answer, or…or is working on a cure!"

Mr. Swire's laughter had died down, but he was shaking his head, looking sad and resigned. "If you think what you saw on the streets was bad…then be grateful that it's not Paris, or Brussels, or Amsterdam, or Berlin, even! The Continent was affected far worse…some say it stretches all the way to Moscow."

Matthew's eyes widened in horror. "How…how is this known?"

Mr. Swire sighed. "It's not known, not really; but the last wire that was known to come across the Channel was a call for help; that Paris was burning, and survivors were fleeing to Calais, hoping to escape to Britain, thinking that perhaps it was safer…" he shook his head. "According to the wire…the dead had conquered, and now outnumbered the living."

Matthew couldn't fathom this. "How…how did it come to Britain?"

Mr. Swire shook his head. "No one knows; an infected soldier? Or a Red Cross nurse, perhaps? No one believed the wires from the Continent, until cases began happening here. The thing is, so many thought that…it had something to do with Spanish Flu, that…it wasn't until they saw what you saw—the dead rising and walking and attacking—that they realized that…everything that the papers were reporting about the Continental wires was true," he paused and took another drink from his glass. "And now it's here…and every day is a battle for survival."

Matthew nodded his head. He looked at Reginald Swire in amazement. The man was by no means a "warrior", at least not upon first glance. He was short, with a graying beard and balding head. He wore spectacles, and while Matthew doubted he was beyond sixty, the wrinkles around his eyes made him look much older. And yet…somehow, both he and his daughter were here…and surviving.

"Where…where are we exactly?" he asked.

"You mean this house?" Mr. Swire clarified. "We used to live in London, near Chelsea, but now we're on the far outskirts of the city; we left when things…began to worsen."

Matthew frowned. "But…why did you stay so close—"

"I have my reasons," Mr. Swire all but snapped, before taking another drink and darting his eyes away from Matthew's questioning glance.

"Alright…" Matthew murmured, knowing it was for the best to not push the subject. "Then…why were you there, today? I mean, I'm grateful for your help, but…I don't understand—"

"I insisted, actually."

Both men lifted their heads to see Lavinia, who stood in the doorway to the room, holding a steaming bowl of broth. She smiled at Matthew and then glanced at her father, before quickly adverting her eyes and looking down at the tray she held.

"Lavinia feels it is our responsibility to see if we can find any poor souls who are…trapped…and in need," Mr. Swire explained. "Twice a week we venture to the city; we don't go far, as you can understand, and we don't stay very long, an hour at most. I chalked it up to 'wishful thinking'; I never thought we would ever find anyone…until today."

Matthew returned his gaze to Mr. Swire, surprised by the man's revelation. "I was the first…?"

"Yes," Lavinia answered. "For…" she paused to think. "For three months, actually, we've been searching for survivors. But you are the first we've ever found!"

_Three months._ This whole thing had been going on for three months? No…as much as it made him feel sick to his stomach, Matthew had a feeling it had been going on for much, much longer.

"How…how long?"

Mr. Swire glanced at his daughter, and she looked down, a sad expression clouding her pretty features. "How long has…_this_ been happening?" Mr. Swire clarified. "You said it was sometime in April that you were injured. The first wires from the Continent were being received in early June. By October, panic took hold of the city. Before December was over, we and many others fled."

Matthew lifted his head and looked back and forth between Mr. Swire and Lavinia. "December?" He recalled the newspaper, the one he had seen on the street when he left the hospital.

_November 11, 1918._

He remembered being stunned at the thought of sleeping for eight months. But…it had been _more?_

"What…what month is it now?" Matthew stammered, fear gripping him at the thought. How long had he been in that hospital? How long had he been sleeping, as the world hurdled into Hell?

"Why…it's April," Lavinia whispered, glancing at her father and then back at Matthew. "April, 1919."

_April, 1919._

He had been out…for an entire _year_.

* * *

_Matthew has encountered the Swire's! In the next chapter, we'll meet more familiar faces...and may even see what's happening in Yorkshire..._


	4. Recollections

_Ok, it's a loooong chapter, but hopefully worth it :o) THANK YOU SO MUCH to those of you who are following and apparently loving this story! It is fun to write, probably because it's so *different* from anything I've written before. And as promised, you'll meet a few more familiar characters here. Please leave feedback if you can! THANKS!_

* * *

_Chapter Four_

"**Recollections"**

His first night with the Swire's, Matthew hadn't been able to get any sleep. However, he reconciled it to the fact that he had plenty of nights to spare, after sleeping an entire year of his life away! Besides…who was to say the world would be any better when he awoke?

That being said, it was still a terrifying experience. In some ways, he didn't know what was more frightening; being awake now, knowing what was happening just outside the house? Or imagining himself asleep in that hospital…completely helpless, while the madness that was the world now, was happening all around him.

The house was a small, brick bungalow. The main floor contained a kitchen, dining room, and parlor, which was where Matthew resided. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a lavatory, yet Mr. Swire made it quite clear that after it got dark, no one was to use the lavatory, or run any water at all. In fact, no one was to make any noise, and no lights were permitted to be left on, save for a few votive candles.

_They_ were attracted to the light. _They_ were attracted to noise, too. Because light and noise meant _life_; and they _fed_ on life.

After he finished eating his meager meal of broth and a slice of bread, Lavinia murmured her goodnights, and then disappeared up the stairs. Mr. Swire nodded his head and informed Matthew that tonight, he would stay in the parlor as well. While Reginald Swire had been very kind and hospitable, Matthew had a feeling that despite everything they had shared, the man still didn't trust him. In fact, while Matthew nibbled on his bread, he noticed that Mr. Swire was cleaning and reloading his guns, as well as taking a carving knife and sharpening a few stray sticks that had been brought up from the back garden, apparently. Indeed, Matthew was beginning to see more and more how Lavinia and her father had survived all these months.

Matthew lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling where he could barely see a dusty glass chandelier. The glass was meant to resemble crystal; it reminded him of the fine, crystal chandeliers he had seen hanging in the grand rooms at Downton.

He froze.

He heard a noise. _Outside_...

He held his breath as he listened, a trick he had perfected whenever the army sent him on various missions into enemy territory.

_Moaning_.

And feet…shuffling…and being dragged.

He nearly fell off the chaise as he heard a hand, running its nails along the boarded windows, just to his left.

But that sound was nothing…compared to the sound of the doorknob being twisted in the front hall.

A light snap brought Matthew's attention to a shadowed corner of the room; the last candle still flickered, but only barely. Still, it was enough light for Matthew to see Reggie Swire, gun cocked and ready, his body tense…and his eyes focused on the door in the hall.

If what Mr. Swire had told him to be true, the sound of the gunshot would alert others, and soon they would be overwhelmed with…with…with _those things_, depending on how many of them were out there.

Surely the door was locked! But how strong were those things? Could they break the door down? Or break through the boards that lined the windows? How intelligent were they? He still had so many questions…and he still kept praying that this was all some horrible nightmare to which he would awake, any moment.

"Shhh…" Mr. Swire shushed, as Matthew twisted his body to look at the door in the hall. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he .didn't dare to blink as the doorknob continued to turn…

…And then…it stopped.

The moaning continued outside…but Matthew could hear it change; it began to fade.

Mr. Swire leaned back in his chair, but he never once lowered the rifle. Nor did his eyes ever leave the door.

Matthew swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and tried to sink back down onto the chaise, unsure what to do. He would feel much better if he had a rifle of his own…

The night continued on. Two more times, there were sounds of footsteps, nails, and groans just outside the house, but they all eventually went away. Matthew didn't relax at all, not even after the sun rose and birds could be heard in nearby trees. Eventually, Mr. Swire rose to his feet, stretched his arms over his head, and then without a word, turned and left the parlor.

Lavinia arrived shortly after.

"Oh, Captain Crawley!" she gasped, taking in the sight of him, which no doubt was beastly. "Were you unable to sleep?"

Matthew looked up at her with absolute astonishment. "I'm surprised you were able to!"

She sighed and shook her head. "You get used to it, after a while," she murmured. "In truth, it's very rare for them to attack a building."

"But last night, I heard them—"

"I know," Lavinia sighed. "It seems that…well, that the poor wretches are trapped, so to speak, between two worlds."

Matthew's brow furrowed, and leaned in closer to catch her explanation. "You mean…their present state, and…and the one when they were…?"

"Yes, exactly," Lavinia replied, a small smile brightening her face, although it was quite sad. "They're not…well, they're not like us, not anymore…and yet…they seem, in a way, to go about a routine. As if…as if they recognize _where_ they are. Does that make any sense?"

It shouldn't, and yet…Matthew found that it did. "That would explain why one of them tried to enter the house last night."

Lavinia stiffened at his words, and Matthew was quick to notice. "Oh, please, you needn't worry, it wasn't as if it tried to tear the door down, I just meant there was a point, last night, where the doorknob turned—"

"Yes, yes, I…I know, I understand," she hastened, before quickly looking away and trying to make herself busy by tidying up.

Matthew watched her; unsure exactly what he had said to cause this change in her behavior, but it was clear that she was shaken. Had it been the mention that one of them had tried to get in? "I…Miss Swire, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You don't need to apologize, Captain," she said with a smile, although if truth be told, it looked rather forced. "And please, call me Lavinia."

Matthew forced his own smile, although he couldn't help but look at the young woman with tender sympathy. "Well, then please, call me Matthew."

The smile that spread across Lavinia's face didn't look forced at all, in fact it looked quite genuine, as well as very lovely. A pretty blush colored her cheeks, and Matthew felt heat rise to his own, causing _him_ to now be the one to look away.

"Well…Matthew," she murmured, smiling as she said his name. "Would you care for some eggs and toast?"

His stomach growled at the question, which quickly caused him to blush in embarrassment. "I…I beg your pardon," he whispered, his cheeks only growing hotter, but his stomach had taken control of his brain. "You have eggs?"

Lavinia giggled. "Papa and I converted the garage into a small barn, so to speak. That's where we keep the horses and chickens. It's amazing how something as simple as a fresh egg can be taken for granted."

"Indeed," Matthew thought, imagining how good an egg on toast would taste. He longed for solid food, and the more he thought about it, the more his stomach growled.

Lavinia couldn't stop giggling, and despite his embarrassment, Matthew found himself grinning back. "Well, then I'll go prepare your breakfast," she said with a smiling curtsey, and then turned to leave. Matthew found himself admiring her retreating figure, and blushed deeply once more. It had been a long time since he had been in the presence of a pretty girl—and the thought quickly made his smile vanish as memories from his life before the War, began to flood his brain.

What had become of her? Was she alright? What the rest of them, all up there in Yorkshire? Good God, what about his mother? Anxiety quickly filled Matthew's mind and stomach, as well as determination; he needed to get his strength back…and he needed to get to Downton.

* * *

Lavinia couldn't stop grinning as she left the parlor. She was so thankful that she and her father had gone into the London and found Captain Crawley. _Matthew_, she reminded herself. The name made her smile grow even bigger. She had just rounded the corner that led into the kitchen, but stopped short when she nearly collided with her father, who stood just on the other side.

"Papa!" she gasped. "Oh, you gave me a fright!" her hand patted her chest, as if trying to calm her heartbeat. "I thought you had gone up to bed?"

"I will be, soon," he murmured, his voice low and his eyes boring deeply into hers. "But I wanted to give a word of warning, my dear, before I do."

Lavinia bit her lip, as the gaiety she had just been feeling slowly began to vanish. "Warning, Papa?" she glanced down the corridor, hoping Matthew couldn't hear them.

Her father nodded his head. "A man would have to blind not to notice how…young and handsome, the good captain is."

Lavinia's cheeks burned, but there was no merriment behind this blush. "Papa—"

"He's our _guest_, Lavinia, and nothing more. As soon as Captain Crawley is well, he'll be leaving."

Lavinia's eyes widened at this declaration. "Papa!" she looked at her father in shock and yes, even some horror. The first survivor they had encountered in…far too many months…and her father wanted him gone, just like that?

"He has his own people to find," Reginald murmured, his eyes never once leaving his daughter's. "Family, somewhere up in Yorkshire. He told me, very briefly last night, just after you had gone upstairs. No doubt he'll want to reunite with them, very soon."

Lavinia felt her hands ball into fists. She could also feel tears stinging the corners of her eyes. This news should not be a surprise; of course he would want to find his loved ones. Yet…for some reason, even though she had just met the man…she felt a piece of her heart, breaking at the news.

Her father reached out and brushed his knuckles against her cheek, wiping away a tear that had dared to escape. His own eyes softened, and a genuine look of sympathy now filled their depths. "It's for the best, my girl," he sighed, before slowly moving away from her, and leaving her to ponder and take in everything he had said.

* * *

The days that followed were interesting ones; at least that was the "positive spin" Matthew chose to use. He was determined to be up and walking again, as a man with perfectly capable legs should, before the end of his first day. The eggs that Lavinia had cooked for him certainly helped a great deal, but he wasn't blind to not notice a change in her demeanor when she returned to the parlor with his breakfast. She tried to keep her distance, it seemed, which puzzled Matthew; even though he had just met her, she was the friendliest person he had encountered in a very long time, and he had instantly felt a close bond with her. But he didn't push; after all, he would be leaving soon. He hadn't told her or her father that, but he had a feeling Reggie Swire wouldn't be too upset by the news when he did break it. He would impose upon the man's hospitality for only a few more days, until he was ready to make his long journey north.

During that time, he asked if Reginald would teach him how to defend oneself against such creatures. Matthew was prepared for Reggie to scoff at him for suggesting such a thing (which would also mean allowing him to use one of Reggie's guns) but the older man surprised him by smiling at the request, before patting Matthew on the shoulder and telling him he would gladly help.

So on the second day of his "stay" with the Swire's, Matthew and Reggie rose after the sun had come up, ate a healthy breakfast of eggs and porridge, before loading the various guns Reggie had in his artillery, and mounting the two horses which he kept in the garage. Reggie did reveal that they also had access to a motor, but he preferred the horses, since they seemed to have a "sixth sense" when it came to danger, and could often act as a lookout while "hunting".

_Hunting_; that was what Reggie called it. In all honesty, Matthew wasn't sure he cared for that thought. While he wouldn't deny, these…creatures…had lost their humanity, they still once were, human.

Reggie took Matthew to the top of a grassy hill, just on the outskirts of the village; there they could see out to London, and what looked to be smoke billowing in certain places. "Are those…did people make those fires?" Matthew asked with wide eyes.

Reggie shrugged his shoulders. "It's possible; or it's possible that a Walker accidently caused some sort of explosion. It's also possible that it could still be leftover smoke from the home-made 'bombs' I used to save your skin. The point is, you can't assume every billow of smoke you see in the distance to be a sign of life."

Matthew frowned, his ears having perked up at a specific word Reggie had used. "Walker?"

Reggie shrugged his shoulders again. "That's what Lavinia's mother had called them; she said they were 'the walking dead', and the name stuck."

Matthew's frowned deepened. "What…what happened to her?"

Reggie swallowed, his eyes locked with the buildings in the distance. "She died," he quickly turned his horse, leading it back in the opposite direction. "Come on; time to see if your trigger finger still works."

Matthew turned his horse and followed Reggie, but he wasn't fooled by the sudden change in subject. However, he also wasn't a fool to bring up a painful memory, either.

The so-called "shooting practice" wasn't with a bunch of tin cans lined up atop a fence. After learning that Reggie referred to their work as "hunting", Matthew couldn't say he was too surprised to realize that the shooting practice would involve actually shooting Walkers.

Reggie took Matthew to a place a little further out from the village; while it meant that the gunshots would echo more, which could bring more Walkers to them, at the same time, it was better for the Walkers to come out to the countryside, than to be cornered in a village square. About an hour had passed, before they finally came across what Reggie called a "herd", which consisted of six or seven Walkers.

"Remember, the brain is all that matters!" Reggie reminded him. "Shooting them anywhere else won't kill them, only the brain."

Matthew nodded his head, and aimed his rifle. It was hard, he had to admit. In fact, he wasn't sure if he could do it. The Walker he was aiming at reminded him of a lad who had died right next to him, when he poked his head a little too far out of the trench. At least in the War, the Enemy was armed; but this…they were just…dragging their feet, milling around, moaning; they looked lost.

His horse gave a nervous whinny, and suddenly the "herd" turned their lost, decaying eyes towards him, and that expression on their faces didn't look so lost anymore. It looked very determined…

"Don't waste time, lad," Reggie warned him, cocking his own rifle and preparing to fire.

Matthew took a deep breath, his gun still aimed at the young male Walker, and with a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness, he fired.

The bullet went straight through the forehead.

The Walker fell.

It didn't rise.

Two of the Walkers paused, looking confused by what had happened to their companion, but they soon resumed their quest, and held their arms out, eager to attack and feed.

Reggie's gun fired, and in quick succession, he killed two more Walkers, before rearing his horse back and looking off to the distance, to see if their gunshots had alerted others of their whereabouts. "Hurry, lad, the rest are up to you!"

Matthew knew now was not the time for guilt or regret. He could do that later, in the night, while he clung to his blankets and listened with frightened ears to the noises outside. Without a second's thought, he fired his remaining bullets at the rest of the Walkers, killing all of them, save one.

The one he hadn't killed was getting dangerously close to his horse. The animal gave a startled cry, and reared up on its hind legs. Matthew cursed and dropped his gun in an effort to hold onto the reigns. The animal's front hoof shot out, kicking the Walker, hard, in the forehead, leaving a solid dent in the creature's skull. The Walker stumbled backward, looking dazed by the attack. It fell to its knees then, and the horse once again reared up, sending another kick, and cracking the Walker's skull right open. The creature crumpled, just like the ones who had been shot.

"See? Destroy the brain, destroy the beast!"

Matthew stared down at the dead Walker, amazed as well as disgusted by what had just taken place. "Guns aren't always necessary then," he murmured, more to himself than to Reggie.

"No, in fact, it's probably best to use anything but a gun, unless nothing else is available," he paused, before adding, "Or unless you're dealing with a swarm."

Matthew didn't want to ask. If truth be told, he was done for the day. Reggie seemed to read his mind and reached over and patted Matthew on the shoulder. "That's enough for today; now let's hurry before anymore find us. I'm sure they heard the gunshots and are making their way."

Matthew nodded, retrieved his fallen rifle, and the two of them quickly returned to the bungalow, ready to face another sleepless night.

* * *

Lavinia knew she should keep her distance. Ever since her father had spoken to her in the kitchen, she knew it was best to stay away from Captain Crawley. Her mother had always told her she had too big of a heart, and Lavinia had a feeling that if she got close to Matthew, her heart would only break.

But it was difficult to stay away. In the evenings, while they had their supper in the parlor, her father would "regale" her with what he and Matthew had done during the day, and she would notice that he would often slap Matthew on the back of shoulder, a gesture she knew was meant to be affectionate. Perhaps her father needed to take his own advice? Then, eager to hear about anything other than killing Walkers, she would beg Matthew to share a story about his home, which she knew was somewhere in Yorkshire. Perhaps if she better understood the place he would be leaving them for, it would make the parting easier?

Matthew told her he was originally from Manchester, where he served as a solicitor, but sometime in 1912, shortly after the sinking of the Titanic, he learned that he had…family, in northern Yorkshire. He didn't go into too much detail about why these distant relations brought him to their part of the county, but after meeting them he and his mother found it difficult to leave. She frowned a little at this, unsure if he was telling her that he didn't want to leave, or that he wasn't allowed to?

Three more days passed after that; Matthew was learning more and more from her father about defending himself against the Walkers, from shooting to using other, more gruesome techniques, in killing them. One night, during supper, she decided to surprise him and spoke up, saying, "I've killed four."

Matthew was surprised, and nearly dropped his spoon.

Her father gave her a look, but he couldn't help but smile somewhat proudly at her. "That she has," he sighed. "And with that frying pan of hers."

Matthew's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. "You've actually killed them with _that_ frying pan?"

Lavinia knew she shouldn't look so pleased with herself…but she was. "Yes, _that_ frying pan."

Matthew sat back and stared at her in utter amazement. Lavinia couldn't deny it felt wonderful to be looked upon like that. "But…but how…you had to be so close!" he stammered, still in shock. He then turned to her father. "How could you let her get that close?"

Lavinia's smile disappeared then. While she didn't go on her father's "hunting expeditions", she wasn't a helpless child.

Her father sighed and shrugged before taking another bite of his stew. "Wait until you have a daughter someday," he muttered. "Then try to see how far you can control them."

Lavinia glared at her father, but he only grinned back, before giving her a teasing wink.

Her father had this rather annoying habit of keeping Matthew to himself. He spent every night in the parlor (which he had done even before they had brought Matthew back, but it bothered her more now because it meant that the two of them could talk, while she was more or less "dismissed" to her room). During the day, after they had rested and eaten, they would go out and "hunt", and Lavinia knew that eventually, the time would come before Matthew would be leaving…and she would most likely never see him again. So it came as quite a surprise, when one day, while her father rested upstairs, Matthew sought her out, in the garage while she was gathering eggs from the chickens.

"Ah, so is this your secret hidaway?"

She blushed but soon found herself smiling. "Unless you like the smell of horse manure, I can think of a great many better places to go."

Matthew patted one of the horse's snouts while she worked. "I owe you and your father a great deal…"

She bit her lip, unsure what to say. "I'm just glad we were able to help you when we could." There, that seemed like the right thing.

"I'll be leaving soon."

That was not the right thing she wanted to hear, however.

"Tomorrow, actually."

Even worse.

Lavinia put the last of the eggs in her basket before brushing her hands on her apron. "I understand," she murmured, taking a deep breath and putting on a smile before she faced him. "You have family you need to find."

"Yes…" Matthew sighed, looking down at his feet.

_Don't cry, do not cry!_ "I hope they are well," she said, forcing her smile even more. "In fact, I'm sure they are. Papa always says that the country is the safest place; the Walkers prefer more 'populated' areas, so I'm sure they're fine."

Matthew seemed to be forcing his own smile, no doubt trying to keep his hopes up. That was what they all were doing, really—trying to hang on to some glimmer of hope.

"Well…" Lavinia said, picking up her basket, feeling the desperate need to get back in the house and retreat to her room. "I will pray for your safety."

"Lavinia—"

She gasped as she felt his hand reach out and touch her elbow, stopping her from moving away. She turned and looked up at him, her cheeks burning and her heart pounding as she looked up into his eyes; oh they were the loveliest shade of blue.

Matthew stared down at her, and then released her elbow, but not before his other hand took hold of one of her own. "Come with me."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then blinked several times to process what he had just said. "W-w-what?" she stammered.

"Come with me; you and your father. Leave this place, it's far too dangerous, you said so yourself that they prefer more populated areas. Come with me to Yorkshire, where it's safer, and—"

"I can't."

Oh but she wanted to. Her heart soared with every word he had said. She would dearly love to travel to Yorkshire with him. She would love to leave this bungalow and all its painful memories behind. And she would especially love to continue getting to know Captain Matthew Crawley better…

…But she couldn't.

Matthew stared at her, blinking in confusion at her simple words. "Why?"

The tears were beginning to blur her vision. She slipped her hand free from his and quickly wiped them away before they had the chance to roll down her cheeks. "My…my father has unfinished business."

Matthew's brow furrowed even more at this. "Unfinished business?"

"Yes," she answered, and then quickly moved away from him, walking briskly to the door. But right before she exited, she paused…and turned her head over her shoulder to look at him. There was a question that had been burning in her for several days now, and even though she told herself over and over that it was for the best to leave it, her curiosity got the better of her. "Who is Mary?"

She looked at Matthew and noticed how pale he had gone when she murmured the name. "What?"

Lavinia swallowed. "A few days ago, while you were sleeping in the parlor," she began. "I was passing…and heard you say her name."

Matthew's pale complexion darkened suddenly, and Lavinia felt her heart drop. "Is she…your wife?"

Matthew's eyes widened and he immediately shook his head. "No, no, not at all."

"Your sweetheart, then?"

He still shook his head. "No, no, she's…she's nothing like that."

For some reason, this made Lavinia glad, although she still had some doubts. "You didn't mention a sister—"

"She's my cousin," Matthew stated, running a somewhat trembling hand through his hair. "A…a distant cousin, mind you."

"I see," Lavinia murmured, looking down at the ground momentarily. One of his distant relations; one of the people that had summoned him in 1912 and hadn't let him leave—and Lavinia couldn't blame her. "Well…" she put on a smile, despite the tears. "I hope you find her." And without another word, she turned and left.

* * *

She was standing in the garden, not too far away from the house. She was staring at the forget-me-nots, as she often did on certain days, when memories from the past haunted her.

"Ah, so here you are!"

She turned her head and looked up at the tall, lean man, approaching. She put on a smile, as she often did whenever someone stumbled across her. Better to appear happy than to face questions.

"Is it wise for you to be out here?" he asked, stopping at her side and taking one of her gloved hands in his own, before bringing it to his lips and kissing the lace-covered knuckles.

"Oh don't you start, now," she groaned with a slight roll of her eyes. "Besides, I'm perfectly safe," she turned her head and smiled at the man just beyond her shoulder. "Isn't that right, Carson?"

"Quite, milady," the older gentleman replied, before cocking the rifle which he held.

The man looked at the butler with a bit of skepticism, but she knew deep down he wouldn't argue the matter. He was well aware how dear Carson was to her. And she knew that of all the people there, she could trust her life in Carson's capable hands.

"If you want to show concern for anyone's safety, show it to my sister," she sighed, before gathering a few of the blue and purple flowers she had been staring at. "Sybil is convinced she can protect herself and doesn't need a man to follow her when she walks about the grounds."

The man chuckled, but his hand moved to her elbow and tightened his grip. She didn't care for the gesture; it came across as being more possessive, than caring.

"But Sybil _isn't_ my fiancée," he murmured, his grip loosening a bit, before tenderly running his fingers along the skin of her inner arm.

"True," she replied, turning to face him fully. "But she is the baby sister of your fiancée, and I do worry about her."

"What can I do that your father hasn't already tried to do?" he asked, his hands sliding down her arms to hold her own.

"Oh I don't know," she sighed, looking down at their clasped hands. "We can't very well lock her in her room; she'd probably tie the bed sheets from end to end and climb out the window!"

He chuckled at her words, and then leaned forward to kiss her. However, before his lips met hers, she brought her hand up to stop him. "We can't!" she whispered, blushing deeply, her eyes gesturing to the watchful butler just over her shoulder.

He shrugged his shoulders, not seeing the point in her sudden shyness. "You are my fiancée, Mary—is it so shocking for a man to kiss his fiancée in public?"

"Sir Richard, please—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, when it's just the two of us, you can drop the 'Sir'—"

Mary blushed even more. "But it's _not_ just the two of us," she hissed.

Sir Richard frowned. "It's only Carson—"

Mary released his hands and gave him a deep, disapproving look. "_Only_, Carson?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes, something that in all truth, she couldn't stand. He seemed to have a talent for making her feel nothing more than a spoiled child. "Must I remind you that Carson is the one protecting your fiancée?"

"A job I would be more than happy to do, if you would let me," Sir Richard grumbled. "That would allow Carson the chance to keep an eye on your sisters."

Mary didn't have a retort for that. And she didn't want to fight. Tensions were high, for everyone at the house. Downton, which had once been a place filled with light and life, now felt more like a prison. No wonder her sister longed for escape.

"It's been weeks since we've seen any," Sir Richard murmured. Mary knew what he meant, and she silently nodded her head. Yes, nearly four weeks, to be exact. Perhaps things were getting better?

"We'll know more when Bates and his party return," she sighed, picking up her tiny basket of flowers.

"How far were they supposed to travel?" Sir Richard asked, offering her his arm, which she automatically took, as they turned back towards the house.

"Ripon, if I remember correctly. Perhaps Malton, too." He shook his head, a gesture that caused Mary to frown. "What?"

"I still can't believe that they allowed her to go with them."

Mary stiffened slightly, knowing the "her" to whom he was referring. "Anna wanted to go; she insisted on it."

Sir Richard only frowned, further. "A woman has no place in something so dangerous; she can only be a burden."

"Anna's not a burden! She can fend for herself just as good as the rest of them!"

Sir Richard lifted an eyebrow. "You're sounding more like your sister than the woman I proposed to, over a year ago; and it's making me think that I _do_ need to keep a close watch on you."

Her arm fell away from his, and she glared up at him. "Anna loves Bates; is it so wrong for a woman to want to follow the man she loves, even that means into unknown danger?"

Sir Richard looked at her with calm, steady eyes. "Would you follow _me_, if that were the case?"

Mary stared up at him, not sure what to say to that. "I…" she blushed, completely taken aback by his question. "Of…of course!" she stammered, before quickly turning away and rushing towards the house. She didn't want him to see her eyes. He was a newspaper man; he was good at knowing when someone was lying.


	5. Journey

_Another LONG chapter, but I couldn't help it; I really wanted to present more characters and get to a certain point, and I didn't want to cut it for another chapter, so you get this one, BUT I think you'll find it was worth it (hopefully!) I was so inspired yesterday and today by the wonderful comments I received, that I *HAD* to get this done asap, so here it is! Hope you enjoy, and PLEASE...leave a comment if you can! THANK YOU!_

* * *

_Chapter Five_

"**Journey"**

Matthew looked down at the Rolls-Royce, still amazed at his pristine condition. "Are you sure?" he found himself asking for what could very well have been the sixth time. "I mean…what if you need it?"

Reggie chuckled as he took another barrel of petrol and loaded it into the car's boot. "We have the horses, as well as the wagon. I told you, I prefer using them anyway. The car is far too loud in an area like this. We've been lucky that a majority of Walkers that come through here do so after it gets dark. No, it should be fine so long as you steer clear of the larger villages and stick to the country roads," he shut the boot and wiped his hands. "Besides, it will get you to Yorkshire faster; and the less camping you have to do, the better."

Matthew couldn't deny that everything Reggie said made perfect sense. However, it wasn't so much the gift of the car that was bothering him, it was the fact that he was leaving two people whom he had come to view as dear friends within the few days he had spent with them. And he didn't like the idea of leaving them behind, especially in an area that he knew was dangerous.

"Reggie…" Matthew began, hoping that perhaps he could broach the subject with him. He had tried with Lavinia yesterday, and was saddened by her refusal. Yet what shocked him more was the revelation that…her father had "unfinished" business. What could it possibly be? Lavinia made it quite clear that whatever it was, it was the sole reason to why they couldn't go with him. "I…you've done so much for me—"

"Oh stop it," the older man grunted, opening a box of bullets and then quickly doing some calculations with his left hand. "I don't deserve any thanks or praise; remember? Lavinia was the one who insisted on going into London; she's the one who deserves the thanks, not me."

Matthew smiled at this, but it was a sad smile. "I do thank her," he continued. "And I do thank you for…for everything you've shown me—"

"I think you should take another box," Reggie muttered under his breath, as he packed the one box of bullets he had been calculating. "Better safe than sorry—"

"Stop, please!" Matthew insisted, reaching out and grasping the older man's arm. Reggie stared up at him, his brow furrowed in confusion, and Matthew took a deep breath, hoping the man would hear him out. "Come with me; come with me to Yorkshire! Gather whatever belongings you hold dear, mount your horses, and leave this place! Whatever unfinished business you have can wait, surely!"

Reggie's jaw tightened and Matthew immediately released his grip on the older man. "You've been talking to Lavinia," he all but growled.

Matthew straightened his shoulders, refusing to be intimated by the man. "I asked her the same thing I just asked you," he replied, plainly and truthfully. "But she said she—both of you—couldn't. That you had 'unfinished business', and that was why you were—_are_, staying."

A moment of silence passed between them. Matthew couldn't read Reggie's eyes, they were dark and steady. Was he considering the plea to go? Or was he considering revealing whatever secret he possessed? At the end of the day, Matthew couldn't care less about whatever Mr. Swire's unfinished business was; he just didn't want his goodbye to feel like a death sentence.

"I like you, lad," Reggie sighed, finally breaking the silence. "I won't deny, when I first met you, I didn't trust you. I was convinced you would be trouble, and I couldn't wait for you to leave. If I had my way, I may have even insisted that you leave the day after bringing you back—but Lavinia told me to be patient, that you needed to get your strength—she's the angel of the family, not me."

Matthew's lips curled at this description, and he found his head nodding in agreement; indeed, Miss Swire had many angelic qualities, it seemed.

"That being said…" Reggie continued. "As tempting an offer as it is, my place is here."

Matthew frowned. "Reggie, please—"

"My place…is _here_," he repeated, his tone commanding, and daring Matthew to try and argue the point further.

Instead, Matthew chose to change tactics. "What about Lavinia?"

Reggie sighed and brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "What about her?"

"Is she to share the same fate as you?"

Reggie glared at Matthew then, but Matthew didn't back down. He didn't like the idea of Reggie Swire choosing to stay and possibly end his life in that bungalow, fighting until the last bullet had been shot…but in the end, it was Reggie's life. However, that didn't mean Lavinia had to be condemned to that same life. Surely any parent would want something better for their child? Couldn't Reggie see that?

"My place is here too."

Matthew looked up, surprised to see Lavinia standing there. When had she arrived? How long had she been there? Long enough to at least hear this much of their conversation. Matthew gazed at her with pained eyes, his heart breaking slightly; it was the first time in a very long time that he felt such emotion with his heart. "Lavinia—"

"My place is with Papa," Lavinia murmured, putting on a brave smile and going to stand by her father. She took his hand, and Reggie gave it a squeeze, but the older man couldn't look his daughter in the eye, and instead turned his gaze to the ground.

If this were a battle, this would be the time to wave a white flag of surrender.

Matthew sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He hated defeat; the last time he felt this defeated had been at a garden party…five years ago…

"So this is goodbye then?" he asked, the emotion bubbling up in his throat.

Reggie sighed and finally lifted his eyes from the ground. "It is, yes. What more is there to say?"

What more indeed? Matthew nodded his head and clenched his jaw. It was all he could do to keep the tears he was feeling from spilling forth. Reggie added just a few more supplies to the back of the topless Rolls-Royce, handed Matthew the keys, and then gripped his own rifle, just in case the noise of the engine coming on brought unwanted company.

"Well…goodbye…" Matthew murmured, looking at both Reggie and Lavinia one last time, before turning to climb into the car.

Lavinia however surprised them all, by jumping forward and boldly wrapping her arms around Matthew's body, giving him a fierce hug. Matthew couldn't deny he was surprised, but he didn't waste any time, and immediately returned the embrace. Reggie snorted, but didn't say anything. Instead, he turned his head away, giving them a tiny bit of privacy.

"Promise me you'll come to Yorkshire when you finish what needs to be done," Matthew whispered into her ear.

Lavinia looked up at him, her eyes wide from his words, but she mutely nodded her head, before hugging him fiercely once more, and then leaning up on the tips of her toes and kissing his cheek. "God bless you," she whispered, before finally letting him go. Matthew couldn't deny, as soon as she stepped out of his arms, he felt a great chasm, and it was ripping him apart.

"Reggie?"

The older man looked up at him, and gave a small smile, before taking the extended hand that Matthew offered and giving it a heartfelt and affectionate squeeze. "Take care, lad," he whispered, before releasing his arm.

Matthew stared back and forth between the two of them, and then finally forced himself into the car. Without a second's thought, he started the engine, gasped as it roared to life (how long it had been since he had driven!) and then quickly released the break, letting the car move away from the bungalow…and away from the two friends he had come to care for so dearly, in just one week.

The tears began to flow then. But he was an Englishman, and like any good Englishman had been taught, kept a stiff upper lip as he drove away. The bungalow grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror…and soon, within a blink…it was gone.

* * *

Mary was furious. Again, her sister was outside; again, Sybil had gone without an armed escort. What on earth was she playing at? This wasn't some damn suffragette protest! This was real! And even though it had been weeks since they had seen…anything…it was still foolish to go out without Carson or one of the other servants in attendance!

Despite all these thoughts, Mary did venture outside by herself, carrying a pistol in her right hand. She didn't intend to use it unless absolutely necessary, of course; and she intended to grab her sister and hoist her back inside without a pause for breath. And she had a very good idea as to where to find her.

"Sybil!" Mary hissed, seeing her sister kneeling on the ground by a group of oak trees. The trees were a short distance from the house, across the gravel drive, near what had once been the chauffeur's cottage. "Sybil!"

Her sister lifted her head, and despite the slight puffiness around her eyes and on her cheeks, she managed to roll them as Mary approached.

"Are you mad? Get back inside, this instant!"

Sybil rose to her feet, but fixed Mary with a challenging glare. "I'm perfectly fine," she insisted.

"Fine?" Mary scoffed, quickly scanning the trees just beyond the oaks. "Do you have any idea of the danger you're putting yourself in? BOTH of us, mind you, by your immaturity?"

Sybil lifted her chin. "If you're so worried, go back inside," she then brandished a pair of gardening sheers and a sharp, silver trowel. "I'm armed and ready."

Mary's eyes practically burst from her head at the sight. "Good God, what…what on earth are you planning?" She knew what her sister intended do, should danger come across, but the thought of her using those things on one of _those things_ caused her stomach to twist in a nauseating knot.

Sybil looked at her homemade weapons and smiled. Mary knew that smile and it only made her frown deepen. Her younger sister did enjoy shocking her. "Get back inside, THIS instant!" she hissed.

Sybil turned her back on her and knelt down to the ground once more. "I'm not finished—"

Mary reached forward and grasped her by the elbow. "I say you are! Now get back inside!"

Sybil jerked her arm out of her sister's grip. "Or you'll what?"

Mary's eyes narrowed into two angry, dark slits. "Or I'll tell Papa!"

Sybil groaned and silently rose to her feet. "Now who's being immature?" But Mary didn't say anything further; the threat had worked, because Sybil was returning to the house. Still, her younger sister's behavior only seemed to be becoming more and more unstable. Perhaps she should _still_ say something, even if it meant paying the price of receiving Sybil's cold shoulder for an extended period of time. Rather a cold shoulder, than adding another body to the too many that were already buried at Downton Abbey.

* * *

Reggie Swire rode alone through the cluttered, filthy streets, passing various shops and bungalows that had once been thriving businesses and warm, inviting homes…but were now, nothing but shells of those places. Skeletons, in a manner of speaking.

He kept glancing to his left, kept expecting to see Matthew riding beside him, but of course there was no one there. Matthew was long gone, hopefully in the midlands by now. He had put two barrels of petrol in the boot of the car, and prayed that would be enough to get the lad to Yorkshire.

It was amazing, really. In just a few short days, Reggie had grown to not only like the young man, but admire him and even…yes, look upon him as the son he never had. Such a man would make any father proud to call his own, or at the very least, make any father proud to see his precious girl married to. He knew that this parting had been difficult for Lavinia, even though she hadn't said anything to him. After Matthew had left, she went back inside, and began to clean the dishes that were in the sink. He stood outside for a little while, his rifle ready in case any Walkers stumbled by, drawn by the noise of the car's engine. But none came. So he too went back inside, knowing he would need to get some rest before facing the rest of the day. But as he passed the kitchen, Lavinia spoke out to him, without turning her back.

_"How long will it be, Papa?" she had asked._

_He knew what she meant, and it broke his heart to have to keep using the same answer over and over. "Soon," he murmured._

_Lavinia paused in her washing, but still didn't turn to face him. "Soon…" she echoed. "You said that four months ago…"_

_He didn't answer her. He swallowed the emotional lump in his throat and went upstairs, where he proceeded to lie down and try to get a few hours of sleep, although none really came._

So here he was now, on his horse, riding through the streets, a small arsenal of weapons in his saddlebag, and his rifle loaded and ready as he searched for that familiar face…

Where was she? It had been two weeks since he had last seen her…

He continued his search, pausing every so often to take out a Walker that came across his path, trying to do it as silently as possible, not using his gun unless absolutely necessary. It was amazing sometimes, how few he would find during the day. But at night, it sounded like an army was passing outside. Where did they go during the day? Did they mill around in London, and then go out and hunt for prey in the villages beyond?

His horse gave a uneasy snort. Reggie trusted his horse more than any of the weapons he carried; he pulled back on the reigns, encouraging the animal to stop, and then reached into the saddle bag, pulling out a bloody club he had used earlier on two Walkers.

There she was…

Coming out of what had once been a tea shop. Teatime had always been her favorite part of the day; how ironic it was to find her at such a place, at exactly that time of day?

She hadn't seen him, not yet. Nor had she smelled him; he was sure that he and horse were downwind. She wasn't alone, either. There were at least three other Walkers, milling around where she was.

Despite everything that had happened to her…she still looked…still looked so beautiful…

She would always look beautiful to him.

But it was cruel to let her continue like this. That wasn't his wife, not anymore. His wife was dead. Her body, however, had been taken over by some monster, and was walking around with no purpose, other than to eat anything living that it came across.

No…she deserved a quick death. He didn't care that it would attract the attention of the others. He could not club his wife. He put the club back in the saddle bag and cocked the rifle, swallowing down the tears and the agony that coated his throat, that made his arms tremble and his eyesight blur. _Just pull the trigger, just pull the trigger, PULL THE TRIGGER!_

She saw him.

Her deep, soulless eyes held his gaze…

And then she moaned, her arms outstretched and her jaw hanging open in hunger, and soon the others were also facing him, and also advancing towards him.

His horse began to nervously paw at the ground. He could feel the tension in its muscles, the fear in its being. He could still shoot her; there was still time. He could shoot her, and shoot the others too. There was only the four of them, he had plenty of bullets…he could do it, he needed to do it, he SHOULD do it!

But he couldn't.

With an agonizing cry, he dug his heels into the horse, and the animal made a hard gallop, away from the hungry Walkers that continued their pursuit, despite the distance that grew between them as the horse galloped faster. His tears streamed down his cheeks, flying in the breeze as they fled.

…Once again, his business continued to be, unfinished.

* * *

"What do you mean you were outside without an escort?" Robert thundered, staring at his youngest with outrage and horror.

Sybil groaned but somehow managed to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "I was perfectly fine, Papa—"

"You know the rules, Sybil!" he bellowed, before regaining his frustrated pacing.

"Darling, please…" Cora attempted to soothe.

"What if one of them had come along? What would you have done?" Robert asked, pausing and glaring at his daughter with a pointed look that his children knew all too well; a look that dared anyone to question him.

Of course, Sybil wasn't afraid to do that. "I was prepared!" she was still holding the trowel and garden sheers and showed them to the gathered family members. They all shuddered and shook their heads at her apparent intentions. Mary noticed how once again, Sybil smirked.

"Sybil dear, a lady does not engage in hand to hand combat," her grandmother chastised in that haughty way they all knew so well.

This time Sybil did roll her eyes. "I've see you use that cane," she looked at the silver-tipped cane her grandmother always carried, and not just to help with walking.

Lady Violet gave her youngest granddaughter a look. "That's beside the point. And I've lived a good life, whereas you, my dear, are still unmarried."

Sybil gaped at the Dowager Countess. "Oh Granny, how can you honestly—"

"You are restricted to the house."

All eyes turned to Robert, who was trying to look as stern and foreboding as possible. Sybil's shocked look changed from her grandmother to her father, and Mary groaned inside. This was only going to lead to a hurricane of insults.

"Restricted?" she gasped.

Cora looked torn. "Robert, that may be a little too harsh—"

"Until she understands the rules, and obeys them, she is not going outside, at all!"

Sybil folded her arms across her chest and squared her shoulders. "I have work to do—"

"Work," her father scoffed.

"Oh Papa, how can you be so heartless—"

"Please!" Lady Violet groaned. "I feel a migraine coming on." She rang a little bell and Mrs. Hughes appeared within moments. "Something for a headache…and make it extra strong."

"Yes, your Ladyship."

Sybil was still fuming. "Someone has to take care of them; clear the leaves away, pull out the weeds, place fresh flowers—"

"Then let Ethel do it," Mary groaned, deciding to add her voice into the fray, despite her better judgment.

Sybil transferred her glare to her sister. "_I_ want to do it! It means something to _me!"_

"Why can't Carson watch her, as he has done Lady Mary?" All eyes turned to Sir Richard Carlisle, who was quietly sipping a brandy in the corner of his Lordship's library where they were gathered. "I spoke with Lady Mary yesterday, and we agreed that I can keep an eye on her, giving Carson the freedom to watch Lady Sybil."

Mary stiffened at this, but said nothing. He made it sound like it had been a mutual decision, when as far as she was concerned, nothing had been decided.

Sybil groaned. "I don't need a man to stand by and watch over me; I'm perfectly fine caring for myself!"

"Oh yes, of course," her father laughed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "With a pair of garden sheers, you'll defend the manor!"

"Robert!" his wife hissed, but he ignored her.

Sybil met his gaze. "Well, perhaps if someone were to teach me how to properly shoot—"

"Sybil!" her mother and grandmother gasped at the same time.

"Absolutely out of the question!" Robert all but bellowed.

"Why not? Mary knows how to use a pistol!"

Mary felt her cheeks redden at this, especially as she could feel Sir Richard's eyes fall upon her with question. "Hardly," she muttered under her breath. It wasn't a complete lie; she only knew enough to aim and pull the trigger (Anna had taught her that).

Robert began rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if the same migraine that was threatening the Dowager Countess were also about to explode between his temples. "There will be no shooting lessons and there will be no visits outdoors, unless you have an armed escort, and that is final!" he didn't bother letting her respond, he knew it would only be another argument. Sybil fixed him a dark glare, and then without another word, turned on her heel and left the room. Robert groaned and shook his head. "I apologize, Mama, for her rudeness."

"Oh don't, please, my head may find some peace at last," she mumbled as she took a drink of water to go with the pills Mrs. Hughes had just brought her.

Mary's eyes moved across the room to a silent figure, one who had been there the entire time, but who hadn't piped up once. She was staring out the window (again) looking mopey and mournful. "Where were you, this afternoon?"

Edith turned to face her sister, looking a little confused at first, and then immediately began to frown. "I was in my room, why?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "You're always in your room, that's all you do is mope in your room."

Edith bristled. "Are you going to dictate how I should conduct my time?"

"Yes, actually," Mary retorted. "Climb out of whatever stupor you're stuck in, and do something helpful, like keep an eye on our sister!"

"Oh I see," Edith growled. "Let the 'spinster sister' take care of the youngest; because you're so busy picking out flower arrangements for a wedding that will never take place?"

"Edith!" Cora hissed

"Oh Lord, I spoke too soon," Lady Violet groaned, taking another dose.

Mary glared at her sister. "At least I have a fiancée; one who didn't turn his back on me at some garden party before running off to France."

"YOU DID THAT!" Edith all but screamed. "IT'S YOUR FAULT HE LEFT!"

"ENOUGH, BOTH OF YOU!" Robert roared, looking at his daughters with shock and yes, even some shame, at their behavior towards one another. "If you cannot speak civilly to one another, then do not speak at all!"

They were still glaring at one another, but Mary put on a cool smile. "Don't worry Papa; I think enough has been said."

Edith was shaking with anger, but she didn't say anything. Like Sybil, she too left the library, slamming the door as she left. Cora groaned and rose to her feet, giving Mary a reproachful glare as she followed her middle daughter.

"You see, Sir Richard?" Lady Violet sighed, before lifting her empty water glass and waving it towards her son to fill with brandy. "Even during an apocalypse, it's never a dull moment in this house."

* * *

"Poor Lady Sybil…" Mrs. Hughes sighed as she entered the Servant's Hall. "His Lordship is reprimanding her something fierce, I must say."

Mr. Carson was sitting nearby and gave an opinionated snort. "His Lordship has always been very clear about the rules; if Lady Sybil cannot abide by them, then she must suffer the consequences."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Oh don't sit there and try to sound so superior, just because your precious Lady Mary lets you tag after her—"

"Lady Mary understands the rules; and it is an honor to watch over her. If you think of that as tagging, well…then I will tag proudly."

Mrs. Hughes knew the argument wasn't worth it, so she decided to leave it at that. She looked down the table at the few individuals who sat there. Once, there used to be a great gathering of staff; now, it was a pitiful number, dwindled down to a small few. "How many days has it been?" Mrs. Hughes whispered to the butler.

But her whisper hadn't fallen on deaf ears. "Three days," Miss O'Brien muttered, taking a sip of her cooling tea. "They should have been back by now…"

"Do keep in mind, Miss O'Brien, that they are _walking_ to Ripon," Mr. Carson reminded.

"It still shouldn't take them three days," she muttered back.

"We must take this as a good sign," Mr. Carson insisted. "If everything seemed well in Ripon, then they would also travel to Malton—"

"They should never have let that cripple lead them," she muttered once more through gritted teeth.

"I beg your pardon, Miss O'Brien?" Carson asked, although it wasn't really question, but more of a warning.

However, O'Brien didn't scare easily. "If Thomas were in charge, they would be back by now—"

"Thomas is with them," Mrs. Hughes reminded, coming over to stand by Mr. Carson's side. "And I don't think Mr. Bates would ignore him, if he had a suggestion to make."

Miss O'Brien glared at the housekeeper, but didn't add anything further to the conversation. Instead, she rose to her feet and left the Servant's Hall, fuming with every retreating step.

"I'd hate to admit it," Mrs. Hughes muttered, as she watched Miss O'Brien leave. "But I fear she may be right."

Carson looked at the housekeeper with wide eyes. She quickly clarified. "That it has been…well, perhaps too long, since they left," she sighed and looked around the rest of the room. "I worry that maybe something has gone wrong."

"We must keep a stiff upper lip, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson reminded her. "This house has seen a great many things, and endured a great many things. It will endure this too."

Mrs. Hughes glanced at the butler with uncertainty. While his words were true, NO ONE had anticipated _this_ event.

"I just hope they return with some decent food!" Mrs. Patmore grumbled. "You know how difficult it is to come up with varying recipes when all you have is stewed tomatoes?"

Mrs. Hughes groaned. "Mrs. Patmore, it's not necessary to cook a six-course meal; her Ladyship has been over that. Things are different now!"

"Who said anything about six-courses?" Mrs. Patmore replied. "I just want a little variety, that's all!"

Ethel was sitting down at the far end of the table, mending something and looking rather cross. "You say things have changed, but they haven't really…" she met the housekeeper's questioning gaze. "They still eat upstairs, don't they? They still dress to the nines? Mr. Carson still rings that dinner gong—"

"That dinner gong and those traditions are what keep us apart from savage monsters that roam about, outside!" Mr. Carson grumbled. "Keeping order and upholding tradition is how we will beat them."

Ethel shook her head. "I remember you saying the same thing once about the Germans."

"Ethel, please," Mrs. Hughes warned. She did not want the maid to disrespect Mr. Carson. Yet, in truth, she worried about what was becoming of them all. As absurd as Mr. Carson's words sounded, they were true, but perhaps not for the same reasons. Upholding the high standards of Downton Abbey seemed to be the best way to keep everyone busy and occupied. Because it was when they sat around, feeling idle, she worried about everyone's sanity…and safety. There were far too many guns in this house, now.

"That reminds me," Mrs. Hughes sighed, looking up at Mr. Carson. "Lady Sybil would like some shooting lessons."

Mr. Carson looked aghast at the suggestion. "Whatever for?"

Mrs. Hughes gave him a look. "What do you think?" she groaned. "I don't think it's too much to ask for; a woman needs to know how to defend herself in times like these."

Carson shook his head. "I'll be more than happy to stand watch and protect Lady Sybil if the need arises."

"Oh Mr. Carson…" Mrs. Hughes sighed, shaking her head. The poor man just didn't understand.

"Daisy!" Mrs. Patmore hollered from within the kitchens. "Come out of that stupor at once! You're letting the tomatoes burn!"

The petite kitchen maid was jerked from her thoughts and blinked at her superior in confusion. "I…I'm sorry, Mrs. Patmore," she apologized, but looked quite shaken, something that the older woman noticed.

"Whatever's the matter?"

Daisy bit her lip, unsure if she should answer. "N-n-nothing," she whispered, and then went back to work, stirring the tomatoes in the pot before her. However, inside, the words she had been tempted to say, kept repeating themselves. _"Someone walked over me grave…"_

* * *

It was getting dark. Matthew muttered a curse as he looked down at the fuel gage on the car. He was getting low, dangerously low, and he had used up his second barrel. Surely he was in Yorkshire by now? He had only stopped driving when he needed to refuel the car. The first time hadn't been so bad; he stopped and ate a little bit of the food Lavinia had given him for the journey. However, he looked out at a wheat field near where he was parked…and saw what he thought at first was a scarecrow…only it was moving…and it seemed to be moving…towards him.

He quickly got back in the car, and immediately drove away; no need to waste a bullet on a single target, but at the same time, no need to call attention to oneself, either. He was doing plenty of that with the car's engine.

When stopped a second time to refuel, it was just outside a village, somewhere. There, he had to engage and fight the handful of Walkers he came across. He used the skills Reggie had taught him; he had a sword, several clubs, and Lavinia had given him a smaller frying pan. He only had to use a gun once, but as soon as he shot a Walker, a few others stumbled out of a nearby building, searching for the cause of the sound. Matthew was satisfied with the amount of petrol in the car, and quickly drove away, before the Walkers could find him.

He didn't stop after that. He forced himself to continue driving, willing the car to go as fast as it was able. But now it was getting dark…and the road was going to be difficult to see, unless he turned on the headlights. But that would certainly attract attention…and these things seemed to be much more active after the sun went down.

Shelter; he would need to find it, and fast.

He drove onward until he saw what looked like a farmhouse. Were there people there? Would they be as hospitable as the Swire's had been? Or was the place abandoned? Or worse…were their Walkers inside? He would have to take his chances, as he watched the sun disappear behind the trees.

Throwing a satchel containing his various weapons and the little food and water he had over his shoulder, he held fast to a sword and pistol, and with a deep breath, knocked on the door of the farmhouse.

No sound.

Did he dare call out? He knocked again, and still, nothing. He tried to peek through a window, but it was too dark inside. Unless they had the same survivor skills that Reggie had, the place looked deserted. Right…now time to break down the door.

He lifted his leg, prepared to kick the door open and fire at whatever was inside…but just as he was about to…the door creaked open.

Matthew froze, and immediately lifted both the sword and pistol.

Nothing.

"Hello?" he softly called. Still nothing.

Should he enter? That door hadn't opened by itself…had it?

He swallowed, and carefully took a tentative step inside. Lord, it was dark. He needed a light, badly. Reggie had given him a box of matches, and Matthew dug inside his pocket, quickly lighting one and looking around.

The place was filthy. And there was a horrible stench coming from somewhere…

This was not good. This was not right. But where else could he go?

The door behind him suddenly swung shut. Matthew turned, prepared to fire at whoever stood there, but he never had the chance.

Something hard, hit him from behind, knocking, him for the second time that week, completely unconscious.

* * *

"That's very kind of you to want to help, milady," Daisy mumbled, looking up at Lady Edith with nervous eyes. Even though she had spoken to the middle Crawley sister before, the conversation hadn't necessarily been on the friendliest of subjects, so therefore that hadn't put her at ease.

"Not at all," Edith sighed, glad to be out of the house. She could understand her sister's longing, sometimes. She couldn't stand the way Mary and Sir Richard kept smiling at one another during tea. She looked for any excuse, including accompanying Sybil outside, and helping the kitchen maid gather some apples from the orchard trees for Mrs. Patmore.

"Is it true that Lady Sybil wants to learn to shoot?" Daisy asked, under her breath. She glanced over her shoulder, making sure Mr. Carson was nowhere in hearing range. He stood a good few paces behind, more or less putting himself between them, and Lady Sybil, who was once again, visiting the graves.

Edith sighed. "Yes, but I don't think anything will come of it," she began gathering a few apples from the branches overhead. "Papa insists that the men of the house will be able to protect us just fine."

Daisy nodded her head. "That's what William says," she murmured under her breath.

"Is William your sweetheart?" Edith asked, looking at the kitchen maid with a touch of envy. It seemed that everyone had a sweetheart, except her.

Daisy blushed, and instead, focused on picking the apples. "We best hurry, milady; it's getting awfully dark."

"I don't think there's anything to worry about," Edith sighed, as she gathered a few more apples. "No one has seen anything in four weeks—"

Daisy let out a shriek, and Edith turned and saw the reason why.

A man, whose flesh was rotting and who had blood staining his mouth, jaw, and the front of his tattered shirt, groaned at them in hunger. "Run Daisy!" Edith cried, but the creature managed to reach through a gap in the tree branches and clutch her wrist. Edith let out a blood curdling scream.

Daisy stared in horror, and then turned and ran for Mr. Carson. "Help! Help! It's got her! It's got Lady Edith!"

Sybil, who had just finished whispering a prayer, bolted to her feet at the sound of her sister's scream. Carson, who looked startled by Daisy's cry, quickly cocked the rifle and began to run towards Lady Edith's screams. But the sky had darkened so quickly, that he couldn't see the ground very well, and his foot got caught in a rabbit hole in the ground, causing him to not only fall forward, but drop the rifle a good several feet.

Daisy tried to help Carson up, but he was quite heavy. Sybil ran past them both towards her sister, and along the way grabbed the fallen rifle, scooping it up and holding it high above her head as if she were holding a cricket bat. "LET HER GO!" Sybil screamed, and with all the force she had, swung the butt of the rifle, hard, into the creature's face, stunning it long enough to release her sister. "RUN EDITH!"

Edith didn't need to be told twice. She turned and ran, but looked behind and gasped when she noticed her sister wasn't following. "Sybil!"

"GO!" Sybil shouted, before swinging the gun again at the creature, this time hitting it hard atop the head. The creature fell to its knees, groaning, blood spurting from the wound she had managed to create. With a mighty roar, Sybil swung the gun one last time, and a satisfying crack could be heard, as she was sure she made contact with the skull.

The creature fell forward, face to the ground.

She had done it. She had killed one! BY HERSELF! Despite the gruesome sight that lay before her, and the terrible fright she and her sister had just lived through, Sybil found herself grinning from ear to ear. She turned to shout her victory to her sister, but the words were robbed from her mouth, as the creature's hand shot out, and grabbed hold of her right ankle.

Sybil gasped and quickly fell backwards onto the ground. The attack had been such a surprise that she also managed to lose her hold on the rifle, and it fell from her hands, just out of reach.

"SYBIL!" Edith shouted.

"MILADY!" Carson also shouted. He tried to get to his feet, but a howl of pain escaped his lungs. He must have sprained his ankle when he had fallen. Daisy still tried to help him up, but in truth, she was helping very little.

Sybil shook her leg, trying to free it from the creature's gasp. No, it couldn't be possible, she was SURE she had killed it! The thing had a vice-like grip, and was crawling towards her with hungry, soulless eyes.

She gritted her teeth and tried to kick it away with her free foot, but its other hand grabbed that ankle, and Sybil fell back, once again, in the midst of her struggles. She tried to sit up, tried to twist her body, her hands searching for the rifle, for a rock, for ANYTHING that could help her kill the monster!

And then a gunshot filled the air.

Sybil gasped and turned her head. The thing was dead, for certain now, its bloody brains splattered all over the grass, and her skirt. She kicked her legs free from the creature's now lifeless grip, and quickly scooted herself away from it, her eyes wide and her breath coming in quick gasps.

Edith was crying. She ran to where Sybil lay, collapsed at her side, and gathered her sister in her arms, sobbing on her shoulder as if she had been the one that had nearly been consumed.

Sybil however kept her eyes upward…as the person responsible for the shooting emerged from the shadows of the orchard trees, his gun reloaded and ready, but pointing downwards at the ground.

She held his gaze, and he hers. Where had he come from? And more importantly, _who was he?_

"Well, looks like I arrived just in time," he joked, a cock-sure smile spreading across his face as he gave her a little bow, before leaning forward and offering her his hand to help her up.

Sybil swallowed and glanced back and forth between his blue eyes and the proffered hand. "Who…?" was all she managed to murmur, her voice still shaky after the ordeal.

He smiled, and Sybil felt her cheeks darken. "Tom Branson," he took her hand in his and without another word, hoisted her up to her feet. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."


	6. Allies

_Hehehe, I'm glad so many people are enjoying this story, especially the last chapter. Tom Branson is in the house! And you'll be seeing a lot of more of him from now on ;o) Thanks for reading, and please continue to share your thoughts!_

* * *

_Chapter Six_

"**Allies"**

Sybil watched the stranger with interest.

She stood in the doorway to the Servant's Hall, her arms wrapped around her body, still trying to calm the trembling that had taken hold after her attack and fight with the creature. She couldn't deny she was a little disappointed that she hadn't killed it; she was so sure that she had, and it would be an opportunity to prove to the others that she was more than capable of fighting and protecting the residents of Downton! She wanted to be pleased for what she had done; for not being afraid to jump in and do what she did to save her sister. But she would always chastise herself for not being certain that the creature was dead. No…had it not been for this stranger, she too would probably have joined the others, buried in the oak grove.

"Lord, I've never seen a man eat so quickly!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, as the stranger gobbled down his second helping of supper leftovers. "Don't know many who are as keen as you are about stewed tomatoes!"

The stranger gave a wry smile to Mrs. Patmore's comment. "It's not so much…what the food…is…" he managed to say between chews. "Just…that's it's…food, in general!"

Daisy was standing just over Mrs. Patmore's shoulder. "How long has it been since you've eaten anything?"

"Not now, Daisy," Carson grumbled, gritting his teeth as he hobbled around the table, trying to look stern despite the obvious pain he wore on his face. Sybil rolled her eyes; she should have known better than for Carson to take her medical advice and sit still, taking some weight off that injured ankle.

Thank heavens for Mrs. Hughes. "Mr. Carson, what are you doing?" she gasped, coming back into the room, after fetching some tea for the stranger. "Didn't you hear Lady Sybil? Sit down and prop that ankle up at once!"

Carson bit his lip, as if trying to keep the retorts from escaping. The stranger also bit his lip, as if trying to keep his laughter at bay. He glanced away from the grouchy-looking butler and looked across the room…right to where she stood.

Sybil felt her cheeks flood with heat, and she quickly turned her away. As soon as she had done this, she began chastising herself for the silly action. Good heavens, this was _her_ house, after all; she was free to meet the gaze of anyone…including this strange man…with the very…_interesting_…accent…

A sudden commotion was heard overhead, and within a matter of seconds, the sounds of several quickened footsteps filled the Servant's Hall, as both her parents, led by Edith, moved quickly down the stairs.

"He's in here, Papa!" Edith declared, her voice an interesting mix of excitement and fright. Sybil could understand; her heart was still pumping wildly after the attack in the orchard. At least…that's what made the most sense…didn't it?

Her parents stopped momentarily at the bottom of the stairs, and upon seeing her there, quickly enfolded her in a tight, trembling hug. "Oh my baby!" her mother practically wailed, gathering her tightly and squeezing her so, that Sybil swore she heard something crack. Her father also hugged her just as fiercely, and much to Sybil's surprise, didn't launch into a litany of complaints for putting herself in danger. Although she had a feeling she would hear something later. Her father was the first to release her, mainly because Edith tugged on his arm, drawing his attention to the small dining room, where all of the servants quickly stood to attention...and where the stranger, still trying to swallow his mouthful food, also rose.

"That's him, Papa," Edith murmured, smiling at the stranger with large, grateful eyes. Sybil was watching the whole scene from the crook of her mother's arm, and couldn't deny a tiny twinge of jealousy at the way Edith smiled at the handsome, young man.

"My dear, dear fellow!" her father exclaimed, moving quickly to close the gap between the two of them, and then gripping the stranger's hand, before shaking it quite heartily. "Thank you! I don't think there are enough ways to say it, but thank you, thank you, thank you!" The poor man was trying to smile, but he did look a bit overwhelmed by the thankful display of emotion. Carson merely frowned.

"You're quite welcome, sir," the stranger finally managed to say, even though her father seemed to refuse to let go of his hand.

"_His Lordship_," Carson hissed under his breath. Mrs. Hughes gave a slight elbow to the butler's ribs.

Her father finally released the stranger's hand, and frowned deeply at the sight of Carson and his newly bandaged ankle. "Good God, Carson, what happened to you?"

Carson groaned. "A rabbit hole, milord. My…foot…became caught in it."

"Gracious!" her mother exclaimed, finally adding her voice to the fray. "Oh dear, then thank heavens you were there, sir, when help was needed!" her mother smiled at the stranger, whose cheeks reddened a bit at her words. Carson also turned red, but not for the same reasons.

"Yes, indeed," her father murmured, turning his attention back to the stranger. "What is your name, lad?"

"Branson, your Lordship," he bowed his head just a touch out of respect, although Sybil did notice how stiff the gesture seemed…as if he were reluctant to perform it. "Tom Branson."

"Branson," her father repeated, smiling and then clapping his hand on the man's shoulder. "Well, to repeat her Ladyship, thank heavens you were there to take care of things when poor Carson was injured."

Carson grunted at this, causing both Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes to exchange a look, before quickly looking down at the ground before the threat of laughter took control.

However, everyone was surprised by the next words that were spoken.

"Actually, she was the one who did most of the work," Mr. Branson commented, making a slight gesture towards her…as well as giving her a small smile.

Sybil felt all the blood suddenly drain from her face, before flooding back to her cheeks and causing her to glow like a beacon in the night. Everyone was looking at her now, with wide, surprised eyes. "What?" her mother asked, looking now at her with a puzzled frown.

"He's right!" Daisy suddenly piped up. "The thing grabbed Lady Edith, and Lady Sybil rushed forward, taking Mr. Carson's gun and hit it over the head—"

"DAISY!" the butler, housekeeper, and cook all shouted simultaneously, before giving the poor kitchen maid a harsh look that immediately had her shrinking once more into the background.

But the damage was done. "Sybil!" her mother gasped, looking down at her with the same sort of gaze that Daisy had just received. "Is this true?"

Sybil stared up at her mother and then glanced over at her father, who was also frowning deeply. Oh dear…

"I…I…" she was stammering like a frightened child, and she hated feeling like one, too, especially when she wasn't ashamed of her actions. She had saved her sister's life, after all! "Carson had fallen…" she murmured, feeling bad for causing more embarrassment for the poor butler. "It had Edith by the wrist, someone had to help her! So…yes, I grabbed his rifle, and hit it over the head—"

"Yes, I think we have established the image, thank you," her father groaned, rather dismissively. Sybil's face burned even brighter, but now she wore a look similar to Carson's, and her eyes were narrowed as she glared at her father's back. "Anyway, Branson…it was good that you arrived when you did."

"Yes, very convenient," Carson muttered under his breath.

"What was that Carson?"

"Nothing, your Lordship."

Her father turned his attentions back to Mr. Branson and gave the man a polite smile. "Well…I'm glad that we could offer you some food..." he frowned as looked down at the bowl of stewed tomatoes. "I only wish it were something…" his voice trailed off, not quite sure what to say without insulting Mrs. Patmore. The cook turned her head slightly, and Sybil did notice the slight roll of eyes that she gave.

"I thank you for your kindness, your Lordship," Mr. Branson replied. "If truth be told, it's been so long since I had a hot meal, practically anything is welcome."

"Really?" her father questioned. "Do you mind if I ask…?"

Sybil knew what her father meant by his question, and if truth be told, she too was eager to learn more about the handsome stranger, and where he had come from.

"I was in Liverpool, when…when it happened," he began to explain. Sadly, no explanation needed to be given for what he meant by _"when it happened"._ "I was working there when all hell broke loose—beggin' your pardon," he quickly apologized for the glare Carson gave him, and the slight gasp by Edith and her mother. Sybil wanted to roll her eyes; really, with how the world was now, weren't they beyond all that foolishness? "My brother and I barely escaped—"

"Your brother?" her father interrupted.

"Aye," Mr. Branson answered. "Kieran. We were on our way to York—"

"You were going to York?" Sybil was now the one to interrupt.

"Hush!" her mother admonished, but Sybil ignored her mother's glare and met the Irishman's eyes for confirmation.

He gave a small smile and nodded his head. "Aye…you've heard about it too?"

"Heard about what?" Edith asked, looking very confused.

"Nothing," her father said, his voice full of finality, daring anyone, including Mr. Branson, to say anything further on the subject. Mr. Branson met her father's gaze, and for a brief moment, Sybil felt a cold tremble fall across her body at the way they looked at each other, but then her father put on a pleasant smile once more, and quickly changed the subject. "So…what became of the other Mr. Branson?"

The present Mr. Branson swallowed and then turned his eyes back to the others. "We were separated, actually—during an attack."

"Oh, how dreadful!" Mrs. Patmore gasped, immediately thinking the worst. Another chill passed over Sybil; besides what had happened this evening in the orchard, she had seen only one other attack—and it surely was the most dreadful thing imaginable.

"I'm so sorry," her father murmured, and Sybil knew he meant it.

Mr. Branson gave a nod of his head, a sign of gratitude for the sentiment, but then began to shake it, before putting on a brave smile. "I appreciate the sympathy, your Lordship, but…I know my brother; he's out there, trust me. He's just biding his time. I have every confidence we'll find each other soon."

Carson's eyes narrowed at this, a look that seemed to go unnoticed by everyone else, save her. Why was Carson so…negative, towards Mr. Branson? The man had not only killed the creature, but had also helped her in getting Carson out of the rabbit hole, onto his feet, and back inside the house. Was it simply a feeling of resentment over wounded pride? Or was there something else that caused such harshness from the Downton butler?

"Well, I pray you're right," her mother sighed, although Sybil could tell her mother was doubtful. Everyone looked doubtful, save Mr. Branson.

"Wait!" Edith gasped, as if suddenly realizing something. "You said you were separated during an attack…where…where did this attack take place?"

Sybil's eyes widened and she turned her head back to Mr. Branson. _Yes, excellent question, Edith! _ A worrying thought immediately began to fill her head. It had been four weeks since they had seen anything; four weeks since danger had crossed their path. But tonight…that respite from danger had ended. Where had that creature come from?

"I…I'm not sure I learned the name of the village," Mr. Branson sighed. "But…it wasn't too far from here; half a day's journey, I think; if you travel by foot?"

Her parents exchanged a worried glance, as did the other servants. Sybil felt fear clutch at her throat as she processed Mr. Branson's words. _Half a day's journey by foot…that would be Malton._ She remembered the distance quite well, because she and her dear friend Gwen had once traveled it…

Oh God…Bates and Anna and…oh no.

"Well!" her father's voice filled the room, bringing all their attention back. "It's getting late, and I think we could all use some sleep."

"But Robert—"

"Nothing further needs to be discussed tonight, Cora," he whispered to her mother, but Sybil recognized the worried tone in his voice. She was sure he was thinking the same thing they all were. "Mr. Branson, we have some spare rooms in the servant's quarters; at the very least, let us offer you a warm bed to go with your meal."

Sybil bit her lip and looked down at her feet. _Servant's quarters? Really, Papa? We have plenty of spare bedrooms elsewhere in the house, as well! Fine rooms, that Mrs. Hughes and the meager staff continue to keep in pristine order, despite the fact that we'll never host another dinner party ever again. And yet you're offering him a small bed in the servant's quarters?_ However, if Mr. Branson were insulted by the remark, he didn't show it.

"Thank you, your Lordship," he said with a small bow of his head, as he had done when her father first addressed him.

Her father smiled, and nodded his head in approval. "Well…come, Sybil. Your grandmother is no doubt worried sick, wondering what happened, as I'm sure is your sister, who was left to keep her calm." While Sybil was sure that Mary and Granny were eager to know what had happened, she doubted they were "sick with worry" as her father seemed to indicate.

With a somewhat forceful, guiding hand, her mother pulled her towards the staircase, and she reluctantly followed, despite her wish to stay and learn more about Mr. Branson. Would Carson ship him off at first light? One would wonder, based on the suspicious glares he kept giving him. She hadn't had the chance to speak with him properly at all, to offer her own thanks. And if truth be told…she was curious about him. No doubt everyone would ask her why; she knew enough, didn't she? But no, she didn't. She knew barely anything. And it troubled her, if truth be told…that she wanted to know more about a man she barely knew. _But that's the point, isn't it? To know more, so you don't feel this way? Because that will surely remove any strange feelings you do have…_

"Oh, by the way, Branson," her father asked, before turning to leave. "What did you do, in Liverpool? Meaning, what was your work?"

"I was a chauffeur, your Lordship," he simply answered.

Sybil noticed a glance between her mother and father, before her father gave the young man one last smile. "Well, good night…to all of you," he addressed the rest of the staff, who murmured their goodnights in kind.

This was her last chance. He could very well be gone before she arose tomorrow. She wriggled her arm free from her mother's grasp, and then pushed past both her father and sister, until she was standing just in front of the Irishman, and without a moment's hesitation, took his hand in hers to shake. "Thank you, Mr. Branson."

A soft gasp went up from a few people for her rather shocking boldness, but Sybil didn't care. They were all well aware by now that she was nothing like the rest of them, and her choice to save her sister and fight back tonight was yet another example of that.

Mr. Branson even looked surprised by her gesture. But a smile quickly spread across his face, and Sybil cursed herself for how hot her cheeks became at that smile. "You're welcome…milady," he murmured in reply, before returning the shake.

Sybil swallowed. Was it her imagination? Or did he just…squeeze her hand?

"Yes, yes, come, let's give the man a chance to get some sleep," her father grumbled, more or less pulling here away from the smiling Irishman. Sybil allowed her father to pull her away, silently grateful, because she had momentarily found herself lost in Mr. Branson's smile and eyes.

As she climbed the steps, she heard Mrs. Hughes argue with Carson that she would show Mr. Branson to his room, since Carson was in no condition to go and do any unnecessary walking. She bit her lip to keep from giggling, and turned one last time to look over her shoulder.

He was watching her as she ascended the stairs. And that strange tremble rippled through her body once more, only this time, it wasn't a chill that filled her...but warmth.

* * *

He was at Downton, again. It was summer. He wore a cream-colored suit. She wore a lovely white dress with lilac stripes. It was supposed to be a happy occasion…and yet he felt the greatest trepidation. He wanted to know the truth, the truth to why she hadn't said anything final about his proposal. He had been waiting all summer, and every time he asked for her answer, she kept giving him an excuse: _"after Sybil's coming out ball",_ or _"at the end of the season",_ or _"not until Mama's child is born"…_

Did she love him? His heart was breaking at the sad reality of the situation.

They were at their bench, a place he had come to think of as just "theirs". They were arguing, and even though he felt he was in the right, he couldn't deny he hated every second. She had turned her back on him, and he could tell she was crying by the way her shoulders shook. Suddenly he was at war with himself; a part of him demanded that he leave her standing there, that she deserved this…while another part of him told him to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her and kiss her as he had been longing to do all day…

But when she did turn, it wasn't her anymore. Her dark hair and dark eyes had transformed to reddish-gold and bluish-green. Her dress was simpler, and she was smaller, looking slightly frailer compared to the woman he had just been arguing with. She looked at him with large, hollow eyes, tears shimmering in their depths. His heart was breaking once again, being torn in half for leaving her behind, for abandoning her when every fiber of his being had told him to take her with him, no matter what excuse she or her father gave.

He reached out, wanting to touch her, wanting to beg for her forgiveness, for _both_ their forgiveness…but the sun had suddenly grown so bright, that it was making it harder to see her…to see them…it was blinding…and it began to engulf them, and—

Matthew groaned, as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut to the light that was piercing through the broken shutters of the farm house.

His head was throbbing. His back was stiff. He was lying on a cold floor. A string of curses escaped his lips as he attempted to sit up. The dull ache on his head became a screaming migraine. The sharp light wasn't helping, either. Good God in heaven, what had happened? He remembered the darkness growing, he remembered the need to get off the road, to find shelter…he remembered the farm house, knocking on the door, waiting for a response…none came. The door creaked open, and with his weapons drawn, he entered—

His weapons. Matthew's eyes went wide with fear, and he searched for the sword which had been at his side—

It was gone.

And so was his satchel! All the weapons he had in it…the food…the water! Oh God…the car!

He clumsily rose to his feet and threw open the door, his eyes widening even more at the sight of…nothing.

The car was gone. Everything was gone. Whoever had struck him in the night had taken everything…save for the pistol he had carried, which was lying on the ground next to three extra bullets, and a small piece of paper.

_Good luck._

He gritted his teeth. The message mocked him. The author of that message was mocking him right now, he had no doubt. DAMN WHOEVER THAT PERSON WAS!

There was no positive way to look at this; yes, he had been left a single pistol and had a total of nine bullets, including the three extra, but…he had no idea where he was. Even in the light of day, this farm house didn't look familiar. Nothing around him looked familiar. He wasn't even sure he had made it to Yorkshire, let alone how far he was from Downton!

He was completely, utterly cut off. He was now the one who had been abandoned.

_Well, you can stand there with your throbbing head and feel sorry for yourself, or you can get yourself up off the ground and start walking northwest._

There really was no other option. He just prayed that his destination wasn't too far away. Or that the need would arise where he would have to use his gun.

* * *

Robert had gotten into the habit of rising early. The world was different now, and in his opinion, the days were gone for mornings spent lounging in bed before rising to have breakfast. Cora still breakfasted in bed, but she had so few luxuries, he didn't see the point in removing that from her. It was strange, sometimes; how something as simple as sitting in the library, reading the newspaper, could be seen as a treasured luxury. God, how he missed reading the newspaper…

He wasn't the only one who rose early, in fact he sometimes wondered if she even slept. He entered the dining room and greeted his mother with a simple nod. She returned the nod, before returning her gaze, once again, to the window, where she continued to watch the outside world like an eagle, nesting atop a mountain. He sometimes wondered what had her interest, but he never asked. He went to the sideboard where toast, porridge, and a few meager eggs waited. He sighed again. He missed sausages, too.

"Carson wants to speak with you," his mother murmured, her eyes still gazing out the window.

Robert looked a little puzzled. "Did he say why?"

"Something to do with that Irishman you let spend the night."

He couldn't tell if his mother was being critical or merely her usual self.

As if on cue, the butler entered the room, his grim face looking even grimmer as he leaned on a cane. Robert felt his throat tighten at the image of the cane; _Bates_. What had become of his old friend? Surely he should have been back by now…

"Good morning, Carson," Robert greeted. "I pray your leg is feeling better?"

"Quite, milord," Carson grunted. Robert should have known better than to ask the man something that could reflect negatively on his person. "I was wondering, milord…what should we do about Mr. Branson?"

Robert frowned slightly, partially to Carson's question, and partially to his dry toast. Butter was another luxury he missed. "What do you mean?"

"I have asked Mrs. Patmore to set some porridge aside for him," he older man grumbled, clearly feeling the opposite of what he had asked the cook to do. "But once he has come down, and has eaten his breakfast…what do you want me to say to him?"

Robert took a bite of his own porridge. "What needs to be said?"

Carson did his best to suppress a groan. "We can give him a small amount of food, if you wish, milord—although I don't know if that's wise, since we have so many mouths to feed here—"

"Oh come now, Carson," Robert interrupted, feeling rather annoyed at the butler's obvious disapproval of Mr. Branson. "You know…I have a good mind to hire him."

Carson's eyes widened all of a sudden, and even his mother turned around to look at him with surprise. "I beg your pardon, milord?" Carson managed to speak, after sputtering for a few moments.

Robert couldn't help but smile to himself at Carson's reaction. He cleared his throat before continuing. "Yes, well, he did say he was a chauffeur in Liverpool—although I do wonder to whom it was he worked for—I doubt it will be possible to get a reference," he sighed. "But…ever since Taylor left and after what happened to Pratt…" his voice trailed off as an old memory stirred. He shook his head, not wanting to dwell on anything that could bring back nightmares. "Anyway, it would be good to have another gun around the house."

Carson seemed to bristle at this. "Forgive me, milord, for what occurred last night, but I can assure you, it will not happen again! I have made it my life's work to serve this family, and I will continue to do just that, even to the point of giving my own life—"

"Oh come now, Carson, there's no need to be dramatic," the Dowager Countess groaned.

"Indeed," Robert replied. "Carson, I'm not doing this to punish you or because I think you're unable to protect the girls, but until Bates and the rest of them get back—our numbers, and our means to protect ourselves, are very slim," he sighed and turned his head to look out the window as his mother had done. "And last night's attack…and Branson's story…may mean we're not out of the woods, yet."

Carson snorted. "Do we know anything about Mr. Branson, other than the fact that he's Irish? Can we trust him?"

Robert frowned at this. "Why ever not? He saved Sybil—"

"But what about his duty to those he served in Liverpool, or wherever he came from?" Carson insisted. "He told us that he and his brother, if that is true, left Liverpool and are on their way to York. But somewhere, and he couldn't tell us where, mind you, they were separated…and he just somehow managed to find Downton and conveniently found his way—"

"That's enough, Carson," Robert interrupted, feeling quite put out by the butler's misgivings. "True, we know very little about Branson, but I do not think we are harboring some Sinn Fein terrorist, if that is your worry."

Carson's lips formed a thin line, but he merely bowed his head in silence.

"Now…he may not accept my offer; after all, if he does have a brother who's missing—and he very well might, let's give him the benefit of the doubt for now—he may wish to go in search for him; I can't blame him for that. But…I will make the offer, nonetheless. And if he accepts…then I hope there will be no further trouble." He hated having to sound like a scolding parent to the butler, especially since Carson was a good few years his senior, but at the same time he had to run and manage his house the way he believed it was best.

Carson lifted his chin, and his eyes now moved away from Robert's, but he nodded his head once more and simply murmured, "Certainly, milord." And without further word, turned on his heel, and returned to the sideboard, as if to inspect the trays that were laid out.

Robert sighed and glanced over once again at his mother. "I don't know what you want me to say," she replied simply. "By all means, hire the man if it means keeping Sybil from becoming some mad, female version of Attila the Hun."

* * *

Tom looked out the tiny window in the room he had been offered. The sun was out and there were hardly any clouds. This was good; it would be easier to tell his brother apart from one them. That was, of course, if Kieran had managed to not _become_ one of them…

He couldn't believe how well he had slept. It was the first time in a long time that he had slept on a proper bed. This also meant he had slept later than he had intended. As soon as the sun came up, he wanted to be on his way. He was glad he had been able to help when help had been needed, but he really needed to find his brother. Despite what Kieran had told him, if they should ever be separated, he knew he couldn't abandon his brother and continue the journey to York. No, he needed to find him—he owed him that much.

Still…he was glad for the respite; for the hot meal, for the bed…for the smile of the pretty girl.

Yes…she had been worth the rescue, he couldn't deny that.

But now was not the time for…distraction. Now he must be on his way. With a sigh, he picked up his shoulder bag and rifle, and opened the door to the hallway—and froze in place, as just standing on the other side…was the girl.

She looked just as startled, and quickly took a step back, before her cheeks turned the loveliest shade of pink. Oh God, what was her name again? He tried to remember what his Lordship had called her last night…Sybil? Yes, that's right…Sybil. He found himself smiling. The name suited her.

"Good morning," he greeted, bowing his head to her. In truth, he detested these little signs of "submission", especially to those who deemed themselves "above" people like himself. But for her…well, she was worth a bow.

She swallowed and gave a little curtsey; that was first for him! No girl, especially no high-born girl had ever curtsied to him. "Good morning, Mr. Branson."

Another first. It hadn't escaped his notice last night that immediately his Lordship began calling him by his surname and _just_ his surname.

"I…I trust you slept well?"

He couldn't help but admire her. To say she was pretty was an understatement. He liked brunettes, always had. And she certainly had a lovely figure; not thin or waifish. But it was her face that drew him; her eyes…the prettiest shade of blue, with a little gray as well. And her lips…full and pink and moist. He swallowed and told his mind and body to calm down. True, it had been a long time since he had been in the presence of a beautiful woman, but he needed to remember where he was, who she was…and the world they lived in now. Such things would have been impossible before, but now…now they were pointless.

"I did, thank you, milady," he murmured with another bow of his head. "The bed was very comfortable; please pass my thanks onto his Lordship."

Her brow creased then, as if she were confused. "Are you…are you leaving?"

"I am, yes," he nodded his head and gathered his things again. "I need to find my brother."

"Oh…" she murmured, before biting her lip. Tom couldn't deny he found the simple gesture…arousing. "Of course. I hope you find him."

She wasn't just being polite, he could tell. She meant it.

"Thank you," he replied. "And um…I'm sorry, if I got you into any trouble last night."

She looked a little confused, but then the memory washed over her about his revelation, that she had fought the beast off first, practically killing it with the butt of her gun, weakening it and making it much easier for him to kill. Still, despite the hell that the world now found itself it, it was clear at this place, little had changed. At least in the eyes of her elders. "I must confess…I'm rather disappointed I hadn't killed it."

She smiled at this, and Tom actually found himself laughing. "You nearly had!" he chuckled. "And you clearly know that in order to kill it, you have to go for the brain."

"Yes," she sighed, although there was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was remembering something…and it clearly wasn't something pleasant.

He swallowed. "Well…I wanted to give you credit; I mean, I'm glad I could help—anyone would have done what I did, but…in truth, I saw what you did for your sister, when I heard the screaming, and…I have to say, I was impressed!"

She looked up at him and her eyes widened a bit, and a smile spread across her face, causing all of her features to brighten. Some girls looked this way when a man complimented them on a dress they wore. For her, it was telling her she had nearly killed a monster! Indeed, Lady Sybil was in a class by herself.

"I think I would have been able to kill it, had I known how to shoot."

Tom lifted an eyebrow at this. "I thought all posh girls knew how to shoot. That you had shooting parties every weekend, or something like that."

Sybil's smile faded slightly. "I never cared for shooting...not that sort of shooting. Besides, we haven't had a shooting party like that since the War, and I was too young to attend them then."

Tom lifted another eyebrow. How old was she? She couldn't be younger than nineteen, but at the same time, she couldn't be older than twenty-three. "So you're hoping someone will teach you how?"

She blushed again, and Tom couldn't help but admire her complexion. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of footsteps caused them both to freeze, and then she quickly hurried down the hallway, through a far door on the other side. Just then, the crotchety butler made his appearance, clearly holding back the pain he was feeling from his sprained ankle. He frowned at him, and Tom frowned back. "His Lordship requests your presence in the library, as soon as you're finished with your breakfast, which is waiting for you in the Servant's Hall."

Tom's frown deepened. "My presence?"

"Yes," the butler grumbled. "He would like to offer you a position."

Tom's eyes widened and he felt his face pale. "Mr. Carson, I…I can't stay—"

"You'll hear no complaint from me, Mr. Branson," the butler interrupted. "However, that is not for me to decide. If you wish to go, then explain your reasons to his Lordship. But after what happened last night, I think you owe him that much before you leave."

Tom gaped at the butler's retreating back_. He _owed_ them?_ A chill ran down Tom's spine. No, he wasn't sorry for coming to Lady Sybil's aide…but at the same time, he was starting to see Kieran's reasoning for why they should never, get involved in the lives of others.

* * *

His feet ached. He hadn't walked this much in…well, in at least a year.

Matthew looked up at the sky, taking note from the sun's position: it was midafternoon.

He should count himself lucky, he supposed. He had been walking for this long, and hadn't come across any Walkers. At least not up close…

He had seen a few far away…at the other end of various fields. Still, it wasn't worth wasting any bullets…or drawing attention to himself, when he had so little. For the hundredth time that day, he cursed the one who had stolen his car…and his weapons. His stomach growled then; and his food.

Despite Reggie's warning about avoiding populated areas, he longed to find a village. Both because it may give him an idea as to where he was, as well as because he could find some shelter, should a Walker see him. That was the only problem about being out in the open like this; there was very little cover.

However, Matthew's prayers were soon answered, as he came around a bend in the road…and saw, not too far in the distance, a few buildings…

He recognized those buildings right away.

_Malton_. Was it possible? Yes! That was Malton, he was sure of it! He was closer than he thought! Despite the ache in his feet, Matthew began running, desperate to enter the village, desperate to see up close some semblance of home…

Within a matter of minutes he was there, entering the village gates…but his pace began to slow as he took in the sights around him.

Bodies. Many, many bodies, rotting in various forms along the filthy streets.

He covered his mouth as he took in the horror around him. This was worse than anything he had seen in the War.

"What happened here?" he asked himself, although he knew it was a foolish question. He knew exactly what had happened…and it might happen again. His hold on his pistol tightened, and he began to move through the village with slow, careful steps. His instincts told him to run, get out of that place as quickly as possible, but he knew better than to do that; he needed to be on his guard, to keep his eyes open, to be watchful for anything—

A groan filled his ears.

Matthew whirled around, and stumbling from outside a building was a Walker…a man, who was missing part of his face, and who only had one arm. Still, he saw Matthew, and opened his mouth hungrily, before stumbling towards him.

Without a second thought, Matthew lifted his pistol and fired into the Walker's head. It crumpled to the ground.

But more footsteps could be heard. And sure enough, two more Walkers emerged from the same building…and then another came around from the outside…and just over to his right, he saw about three others wandering onto the street where he was. And all of them saw him…and began to move towards him.

_RUN YOU FOOL, RUN!_

He turned and did just that, running as fast as he could, ignoring the painful blisters, running and stumbling over the various bodies, running faster than any of them could move…but they kept coming. He needed to find some cover; his endurance couldn't take it much longer. He rounded a corner, a little too quickly, and ran head first into a Walker.

Matthew stumbled backwards, as did the Walker. But despite his momentary surprise, he grabbed the pistol and aimed it at his attacker—

…Who was also aiming a gun at him.

It wasn't a Walker. It was another person! A living, breathing, person!

Matthew stared at the man, and the other man stared back at him. The initial shock began to disappear, and now, recognition was slowly dawning as they lowered their weapons.

"C-C-C-C-Captain Crawley?" the younger man stammered, his eyes wide with amazement, disbelief, and yes, even a little horror.

Matthew couldn't believe it, either. "William?"


	7. Revelations

_Thanks again for all the amazing reviews and comments and follows! I'm glad so many people are enjoying this and getting into it, even if it's not something they normally go for. Well, I wanted to get this next chapter posted in honor of the season 3 premiere of "The Walking Dead" (airing tonight in the US and possibly Canada too). MORE Downton characters surface, and a secret is revealed! Hope you enjoy and please continue to let me know your thoughts! THANK YOU!_

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

"**Revelations"**

Time momentarily froze as the two former soldiers stared at one another. For Matthew, it was as if seeing a friend from long ago, a friend whom you never thought you would ever see again. For William, it was like seeing a ghost.

A smile of relief began to spread across Matthew's features, and he lowered his pistol, but William remained tense and rigid, his rifle still locked and aimed at his former captain. That moment of relief Matthew had felt began to disappear.

"William…?"

William swallowed the nervous lump in his throat.

"William…put the rifle down, please…"

William did no such thing; he just stared at Matthew with wide, shocked, and disbelieving eyes.

"Mason, I order you to lower your weapon, right now!"

That did the trick. Matthew let out a long, shaky breath as William immediately responded to the order. He also seemed to momentarily come out of whatever daze had him under control. "I…f-f-forgive me, sir, I…I just…" he was stammering and nervously trying to salute, while at the same time looking apologetic for what had happened. However, now was not the time for explanations, because a groan could be heard behind Matthew's back, and without a second guess, William aimed his rifle just above Matthew's shoulder, and fired.

The Walker crumpled to the ground…but others weren't far behind.

Matthew was now the one shaking; after having a gun pointed in his face, he hadn't expected William to respond so quickly and aim his weapon after the order. He was grateful he had, but at the same time, he realized reunions such as this needed to be taken elsewhere…preferably someplace where Walkers couldn't attack them.

William seemed to have read his mind. "This way, sir!" he shouted, and then turned on his heel, and began the charge down the alley. Matthew didn't hesitate; he took off after the private, only glancing behind his shoulder every so often to see how many Walkers were trailing them.

The answer? Too many. _Always_, too many.

William leapt over several small fences, and Matthew did the same, although his legs were still shaky and the muscles screamed for respite. It didn't help that the ruckus they were making by leaping over fences and knocking over rubbish bins was attracting more and more Walkers within a nearby radius. "Mason, I hope you have a plan!" Matthew growled, before firing his pistol at one Walker who was closing in a little too close for comfort! The fallen creature caused a bit of a road block for the others (it was a larger one) but he knew it wouldn't take them long to figure out that they nearly had to crawl over it to continue their pursuit. "Speak to me, Mason!"

"Just a few more yards, sir!" William called back, stopping long enough to remove a pistol from his belt and fire at a Walker who had stumbled onto their path. "Up ahead!" William motioned, and Matthew turned his attentions to see what he was talking about.

A pawn shop?

William raced across a small street, firing his pistol at various Walkers, and Matthew followed, firing two more shots, lowering his overall bullet count to a measly five.

The pawn shop had what looked like some sort of metal fence wrapped around it, as if to prevent thieves from breaking in, even if they managed to throw a stone to break the glass on the windows. The fence had an opening, like that of a gate, and William raced to that opening, banging on the glass of the door, shouting for someone to let them in.

More Walkers were emerging onto the street. They were moaning, some were crawling, and all of them looked hungry.

The door finally opened, and Matthew had to duck when he saw the long barrel of a rifle emerge and fire at the growing crowd of Walkers. William ducked inside, just below the barrel, and Matthew watched in momentary horror as the door began to close. "WAIT!" William shouted from inside, and he pushed whoever was at the door away, before reaching his arm out to Matthew. Matthew didn't hesitate. He took hold of William's hand, allowed the younger man to pull him inside, and then with the help of another, pulled the gate of the metal fence to the door, and slammed the door shut, before pushing some sort of heavy piece of furniture against it, to act as a barricade…just in case.

Only then, after all this had been done, did Matthew stumble back onto the ground, gasping and groaning as air filled his burning lungs.

"God, Almighty!"

Matthew opened his eyes and looked up at the voice.

A woman's voice.

His eyes widened as he looked back at a woman to whose face he knew very well, a woman he had seen so many times whenever he visited Downton.

"Hello…Anna," Matthew gasped, smiling up at the housemaid from his place on the floor.

She wasn't alone. The person who had been holding the rifle, and who had helped him in shutting that gate, stood close by her side, and was also looking down at him with wide, amazed eyes. "And you too, Bates," he said with a friendly nod of the head.

"Mr. Crawley?" Bates exclaimed, before offering a trembling hand to help Matthew up off the floor.

"Captain Crawley," William softly corrected, but he seemed to be a little more relaxed now, and was smiling widely as Matthew rose to his feet.

"I…I…I can hardly believe it!" Anna gasped, actually reaching out and touching his shoulder. A smile spread across her face and she beamed up at Bates before looking back at him. "You're…I mean…how…how did you come to be here, of all places?"

Matthew couldn't help but chuckle at her question, but he realized that there was another person in the room, someone just beyond Anna and Bates, who was staring at him just as they had been…although with perhaps a bit more trepidation.

Matthew's eyes widened as he realized who the man was. "Good God…Cpl. Barrow?"

Thomas, the former footman, stood in the distance, looking at all of them with the same wide, disbelieving gaze that William had given him upon first seeing him in that alley. However, the second Matthew had said his name, he seemed to sober up and stood to attention, but did not offer a salute. "It's Sgt. Barrow, now," he corrected, but not without a touch of haughtiness.

Matthew lifted his eyebrows at this, but chose to keep questions and comments to himself. All would be revealed in good time. Even though Thomas, be he a corporal or a sergeant, was the lower-ranking officer, Matthew offered first salute, which Thomas returned.

"I…I still can't believe it!" Anna continued, glancing back and forth between Bates, William, and himself. "Forgive me sir, but…" without another word, Anna reached out and gave him a fierce hug, something that did surprise Matthew, but he chuckled and returned the hug, before glancing at Bates to see how the valet felt about this sudden show of affection. Even though it had been years since he had seen the housemaid and valet, Matthew was well aware of the romance that had been developing between the two of them. Yet Bates smiled, looking both pleased and amazed.

"Forgive me, Capt. Crawley," Anna murmured, blushing and letting Matthew go.

Matthew only shook his head. "None needed; if truth be told, I feel like hugging all of you too, for helping me out there."

Everyone exchanged curious glances, before looking back at him. "Forgive me, Capt. Crawley…" Bates began. "But…we're all curious…how…how did…?" he seemed to be having difficulty putting the words together, as if there was some delicate subject he was trying to tip-toe around.

"How…did I come to be here?" Matthew finished for him. Bates put on a smile and nodded his head, but Matthew could tell there was still something bothering the valet…as well as the others. "Well…I didn't realize I was near Malton, until I just came over the rise—"

"You mean you've _walked_ here?" William gasped in shock, before realizing to whom he was speaking, and quickly looked down at the ground.

Matthew couldn't help but give a wry smile to William's question. "Well, I did today," he sighed. "I had a car yesterday, but when I stopped for the night, I was attacked—"

"Good heavens!" Anna gasped, her hands coming to her heart. "By…by…" she glanced towards the door, where a few Walkers could still be seen lingering, just beyond the metal fence that lined the building.

Matthew shook his head. "No, not by Walkers, a person."

Thomas, who had been keeping to himself while this explanation began, suddenly started coughing. Everyone turned to look at him, and he quickly pointed to the cigarette he was holding, before pounding a fist against his chest to calm the coughs.

"Must you do that in here?" Bates groaned.

Thomas frowned at the valet. "It…keeps…me…calm!" he managed to retort between coughs.

Bates only rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Matthew. "So a person attacked you?"

Matthew winced as he rubbed the rather large bump on the back of his head. "Yes, at least, I believe so. I mean, I'm still alive as you can see…" he chuckled, but none of the others joined in his little joke. In fact, both Anna and Bates nervously glanced at William, who quickly looked down at his feet once again.

"Well…you're very lucky then!" Anna said, trying to put a smile on things. "Where did this happen, exactly?"

"I'm not sure…" Matthew murmured. "A farm house, not half a day's journey from here."

Thomas began coughing violently again, this time earning a disdainful glare from Anna as well as Bates.

"But…if you don't mind me asking, sir….how did you get to the farmhouse?" Bates asked, still looking puzzled.

"Well, I _did_ have a car," Matthew explained. "Someone…someone in London, helped me. He gave me the car, as well as satchel full of items to help me on my journey, but…it was getting dark, and I had to stop to seek shelter, and that's when I came upon the farmhouse, and that was when I was attacked—hit by something in the back of the head and left there…with only a single pistol and nine bullets…" he paused, remembering how many shots he had fired since entering the village. "Now, five."

"So you drove here…I mean, you drove to that farmhouse, all the way from London?" Anna whispered, glancing back and forth between Bates and William.

Matthew nodded his head. "Yes…I…perhaps this is what has you so confused?" he was aware of the looks they were all exchanging. "I woke up, only a week ago, actually—in a hospital, in London—"

"Does London still stand?" Bates interrupted, desperate for the answer.

It pained his heart to have to tell the man otherwise. "I'm afraid not," Matthew sighed. "I…I don't know how I managed it, really…" he laughed, despite the horror of the reality. "But…by some miracle, I awoke, alone, in my room—unharmed. But when I stumbled outside…" his voice trailed off as he remembered the horror of that day, so clearly. Matthew knew that day would forever haunt him, no matter how many lifetimes he lived. "I _was_ lucky, Anna; I've been very, very lucky. I was rescued by some people, the people who gave me the car, and…I…I owe them everything…" his voice trailed off once more as he thought about Reggie and Lavinia, how they were still back there, fending for themselves against the armies of Hell. _I should never have left them._

Anna smiled and took Matthew's hand in her own, before giving it a squeeze. "God is surely smiling upon you, Capt. Crawley."

Thomas made a noise at her words, but then feigned innocence when Bates glanced back at him with a look of warning.

"So…you've been in a hospital this whole time?" William asked, although his voice was barely above a whisper.

Matthew turned to the younger man and smiled, before reaching out and grasping his shoulder. "I was, Mason; but…believe it or not, I do remember what you did for me, back in France; how you pushed me out of the way from that shell, and that you saved my life."

William began to shake his head. "No…no, sir, please, I—"

"Hush, Mason," Matthew ordered, however he could tell that the former footman was uncomfortable, so chose not to push the issue further. "Now, I've answered your questions, so perhaps you can answer the same for me?"

"You mean how _we_ came to be here?" Bates asked.

"It was his Lordship's doing," Thomas answered, from behind the rest of them. Matthew looked at Thomas with raised eyebrows, while the former first footman took a long drag on his cigarette. He seemed to have his coughing under control.

"Cousin Robert?" Matthew whispered, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. His heart suddenly began to race, but it was not for the man to whose name he had just murmured.

Bates' eyes were narrowed at Thomas, and he quickly tried to take control of the conversation before the ex-footman had the chance to continue. "His Lordship asked for a small party to…scout ahead, so to speak. It's been four weeks since there's been any sighting of…" he paused and furrowed his brow. "What was that word you used to describe them?"

"Walkers," Matthew answered. "I mean, that's what Reg—I mean, that's what my…my rescuers called them." He didn't know why, but…for some reason, at least for the time being, Matthew didn't feel comfortable revealing Reggie and Lavinia to anyone, at least not yet.

"Walkers…" William repeated, before chuckling softly. "That's…rather a perfect name for them."

"Indeed," Bates agreed. "We've been just referring them as…'creatures'."

Matthew was more interested in learning what had happened back at Downton, especially what had happened to the house's residents. But something Bates had said had definitely caught his attention. "You said you came out here because you haven't seen any Walkers in four weeks?" Amazing; maybe Reggie was onto to something when he said that they prefer more populated areas? But Malton wasn't so far away from Downton…and the place seemed to be crawling with them.

"We arrived in Malton yesterday," Anna sighed. "Not even an hour had gone by, before we realized that these…Walkers…were everywhere."

Indeed, there were a great many of them, Matthew couldn't deny that. And yet, their number was nothing compared to the horde he had encountered in London.

"We were in Ripon for two whole days before we came to Malton; we searched high and low, but found no signs of…Walkers," Bates explained, still getting used to the new name.

Fear and hope suddenly gripped Matthew's chest. "And…Downton village?" he whispered, swallowing hard. "What of it?"

Anna and Bates looked at one another and sighed, a look and sound that caused Matthew's heart to plummet.

"It's a ghost town," Anna whispered, looking down at the ground, before reaching over and gripping Bates' hand for comfort. "It…it was the first to fall, that we know."

_The first to fall_. Matthew felt nausea grow in the pit of his stomach. "The...the villagers?"

"When word reached us about what was…what was happening, there were many that fled; some came to Downton, seeking help from his Lordship," Bates explained. "And...some went to York."

Matthew's brow furrowed at this. "York?"

Bates nodded his head. "There are rumors that…that York is a safe haven, that they have supplies and soldiers and…a cure of some kind."

Matthew was shocked by this. "A cure?"

"Load of poppycock if you ask me," Thomas grumbled between puffs.

"Yes, well no one did ask you, did they?" Bates challenged.

"Most people dismiss the rumors," Anna clarified, purposefully putting herself between the two rivals. "If they really had all these things, I suspect we would have heard something by now, and that was well over three months ago."

Her words made sense, but it caused Matthew to pause and wonder; how long had this horror been going on? Reggie had given him a clue as to the origins of the disease, but…how long had it been going on in Yorkshire?

"Some people did choose to stay, in the village, but…" she looked away and Matthew didn't have to be told anymore about those poor souls.

"My mother?" he whispered. Surely she had been one of the many that had gone to Downton. He knew that Cousin Robert and Cousin Cora would have taken her in, she was family after all! There wouldn't have been objection, of course; in fact he was sure they would have insisted upon it!

But the looks on Anna and Bates' faces spoke volumes…and Matthew literally began to crumple to the ground. "Oh God…" he gasped, feeling as if the air was being sucked out of his lungs. "Oh God!"

"No, no, Capt. Crawley, you mustn't think that!" Anna argued, falling to her own knees and taking his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

Matthew looked at her with confusion. "I…I don't understand…is she…alive?"

Anna bit her lip. "We…we don't know…" she sighed.

Matthew stared back at her and then looked up at Bates. "W-w-what?" he stammered.

Bates also gave a sad sigh. "We don't know what became of Mrs. Crawley. Because…she left the village without saying anything to anyone, about where she was going or what she was doing…exactly one week, before _everything_ happened."

* * *

Conversations continued as night began to fall.

They moved upstairs, to a flat above the pawn shop. Here was the place where they had been making their camp since coming to Malton. Here was access to the roof overhead, where two of them could crawl out and look down upon the creatures below, as well as try to plan their best move to escaping the madness that was Malton Village.

Thomas sat in a corner, puffing on a cigarette, not caring if Bates glared at him or not. He didn't care what his Lordship said; Bates wasn't the boss of him nor would he ever be. The only reason he was on this bloody mission was because of his medical expertise; as far as he was concerned, that made _him_ a valuable asset, one whom John Bates should respect, if not cower to. At least Anna was there to distract the bastard. And despite their little fist fight from before the War, Thomas knew he could control William. And now, he had something to hold over the lad.

While in the flat, William wandered out onto the roof to keep a watch on things below, while Anna prepared some supper with the meager rations they had brought, and Bates continued to give Capt. Crawley answers to the man's various unending questions. No matter how many times Bates explained that none of them knew what had become of old busy-body Mrs. Crawley, Capt. Crawley wasn't satisfied. He wanted to know more, he wanted to examine various theories, he wanted to speculate; _"Why would she leave? She must have told someone something? She must have left some clue?"_ and so on and so forth.

The questions soon changed to what had become of Downton Abbey, and the people who resided there. Despite the words he used, Thomas knew that the captain really only cared about the ones above stairs. He snorted at this and took a long drag on his cigarette. Anna murmured something about the family being well and healthy, and even though Capt. Crawley didn't say her name, they all knew he was the most curious about Lady Mary. Thomas found it both amusing and interesting that no one mentioned Lady Mary's "engagement". No doubt that would come as a nice shocker, when they all got back to Downton.

_If we get back…_

The situation wasn't looking so good. The pawn shop made an excellent fortress, thanks in part to its metal fence that surrounded its glass walls, but it was temporary fortress at best. They only had so many rations, and if truth be told, Anna wasn't the best of cooks, at least in Thomas' opinion. Plus, he'd give anything to just get away from Bates; was it possible to despise someone even more? Bates clearly felt very high-handed, what with his Lordship "entrusting" him with this task to scout ahead and see if there was still any danger lurking about in the nearby villages. What he wouldn't give for some…accident…to occur.

With a grunt, Thomas decided to get some fresh air, and crawled out onto the roof, where he found William, keeping a watchful eye on the world below. The younger man turned as soon as the scent of Thomas' nicotine filled his nostrils. "Yes? What is it?"

Thomas frowned. "Don't be rude," he grumbled, before expelling a cloud of smoke into the other man's face. He didn't even try to hide the smile when William began to cough.

"Don't do that!" William hissed. "They'll hear you!"

Thomas arched an eyebrow and peaked over the edge of the roof. There were still a good number of those…things…gathered around the shop's fence. Thank goodness they weren't intelligent enough to learn how to climb walls. Some were beginning to wander away, in search of food elsewhere. But a majority knew that "food" had escaped into this building, and were content to wait for it to come out, no matter how long it took. What else did you have but patience, when you were dead?

"How are we going to get out of here?" William murmured out loud.

Thomas flicked some ash from the end of his cigarette. "Out of Malton? Maybe we can find that car Capt. Crawley was referring to and drive out of here?"

William turned his attention back to Thomas and frowned. "You think that car is _here?_ Why?"

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe the thief stopped here? Maybe he needed fuel or something and…was attacked? But it is possible that the car is here. Hey, it's not a bad theory, so don't give me that look," he grumbled.

William didn't say anything further on the subject. "And…what about getting out of this shop?"

Thomas shrugged his shoulders again. "Maybe the almighty Mr. Bates will come up with a plan? He is our 'fearless leader', after all."

William looked at Thomas with disdain. "I honestly don't know what your problem is with Mr. Bates. He's kept us safe, he's a good leader, and his Lordship did put him in charge, so you should show him some respect—"

"Respect?" Thomas spat, as if the word burned his mouth. "Are you honestly lecturing _me_ on showing respect, _private_?"

William closed his mouth, but his eyes never left Thomas'. They narrowed, and then he lifted his chin and returned Thomas' cold stare with one of his own. "Major Clarkson made you acting sergeant for the convalescent home, but that's it. You're not a sergeant out here…and you're certainly not the highest ranking officer, either!"

William was young, which meant he could still be a hot head. Thomas was older, and therefore had improved with time in his efforts for calculating. That entire afternoon, while Capt. Crawley retold his story on what had happened to him and how he had come to be here, Thomas' mind was reeling. If there was one thing both he and Miss O'Brien were good at, it was calculating a good plot. And as he gazed back at the younger soldier and his former colleague from Downton, he couldn't help but smile. And that smile only widened, as he saw the effect it was having on William.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" Thomas murmured, expelling another cloud of smoke from his lips. "Running into Capt. Crawley as we did." William swallowed nervously, and then nodded his head. Thomas only grinned. "Indeed; Capt. Crawley, back from the dead! Oh, what joy his Lordship will have when he sees him…the future Earl of Grantham, alive and well…" he flicked a little more ash from his cigarette. "Good thing you didn't shoot him when you came across him."

"Thomas—"

"That's Sgt. Barrow," Thomas corrected, not even bothering to look William in the eye as he flicked some ash onto the younger man's boot. "Yes, it's all quite…miraculous…you could say. _Especially_ after everything you had told us."

William turned his head away, and began to shift uneasily.

"Yes, his Lordship will be very happy; quite the opposite from when you returned to Downton to tell us how poor Capt. Crawley was _dead_."

Thomas grinned as he watched William shrink at his words. He may not be a sharp shooter, but he had hit the bulls-eye of his target.

"You were in London, of course, at that hospital with Capt. Crawley, keeping what we all thought was 'bedside vigil', so you didn't see how hard her Ladyship tried to keep his Lordship from coming down to London to bring Capt. Crawley back to Downton. You didn't see how Lady Mary would close herself off in some room…thinking she was all alone…and cry and pray for his safety and his recovery. And you certainly didn't see the panic on all their faces, the whole lot of them…when everything began to crumple apart, and still, all his Lordship could think was, 'we need to get Cousin Matthew back to Downton'."

William's shoulders began to shake; was the lad crying? Thomas only grinned further.

"No…you just returned and told everyone that he was dead."

"I thought he was!" William gasped, lifting his head and facing Thomas, the signs of tears reflecting in his eyes. "I…I stayed with him for as long as I could…but…but they insisted that everyone had to leave London, that it was no longer safe! And I tried, I tried to get them to let me take him, but they said I couldn't, that it was too risky, and then the attacks started, and the hospital slipped into madness, and…and…" he paused, beginning to sob. Thomas merely puffed on his cigarette. William was digging his own grave; he didn't need to add anything further to it.

"I…I did everything I could…" William sobbed. "I tried to put up a barricade…I tried to shut him in there, so…so…so they couldn't get to him…"

Thomas flicked the last of the ash onto William's boot. "Well, no hard feelings; your little barricade trick apparently worked!" he said with a false smile. "After all, he's here, he's alive, he's made it this far…_on his own_."

William gulped and looked at Thomas pleadingly. "You won't…please…you won't say anything to him…will you?"

Thomas looked at William for a long, hard second. "That depends…" he murmured.

William's face, which was beginning to look hopeful, quickly fell. "Depends on what?" he whispered.

Thomas couldn't help but smile. He loved this feeling, this feeling of having all the power. And if he played his cards right, he truly would. "Depends on if you do what I say when I say it," he simply stated.

William looked wary. "What…what do you mean?"

Thomas chuckled to himself, before flinging the last of his cigarette over the roof. "Don't worry your head about that right now, _Pvt_. Mason," he replied with a smile. "When the time comes, I'll let you know."

William clearly didn't like the sound of that, but what could the lad do? Admit that he had lied to everyone? That in truth, Matthew Crawley _was_ alive in London, just under a deep coma, but that when Hell erupted, he abandoned his captain, the future Earl of Grantham, to save his own skin? No…William would do no such thing, and Thomas knew it. The key to defeating Bates was within his grasp; he had his puppet, now he just needed to bide his time.


	8. Escape

_Sorry this took so long to update. Since "The Walking Dead" is on Sunday nights here, I am going to always try to have a new chapter in time for Sunday. If I can update more than once a week, I will, but I will at the very least try and make sure there is a new chapter every Sunday. HOWEVER, since Halloween is coming up, from Wednesday, Oct. 24 - Oct. 31, I will be working *exclusively* on this story for that week, so expect several updates during that period!_

_Another quick note. So for those of you who have watched "The Walking Dead", you may have noticed that I have borrowed some "storylines" from various episodes to help with telling this story. You will see such a storyline in this chapter, and I will warn you...it's a little gross. But for fans of the TWD, you'll recognize it, and if you've never seen TWD...well, you're in for a surprise :oP THANK YOU FOR READING AND COMMENTING! Please continue to share your thoughts!_

* * *

_Chapter Eight_

"**Escape"**

Matthew had become a light sleeper. Was it due to the coma he had suffered for an entire year? Or Reggie Swire's strict regime to being alert at night, when Walkers seemed to be at their most active? For whatever reason, Matthew got very little sleep. Every time a noise was made, his eyes flew open, and his hand gripped the pistol that he kept near his side. He would look around, noticing that someone was always awake, out on the roof, keeping watch, while the others slept.

The third time he awoke in the night, Matthew chose to go and relieve whoever was keeping watch…and was surprised to find Anna of all people!

She looked up at him and gave a small smile. "Couldn't sleep?"

He shook his head. "I'm amazed anyone can, really."

"You get used to it, after a while," Anna sighed, and immediately Matthew remembered Lavinia, and how not so long ago, she had said the same words to him.

"Is it…was it like this, back at Downton?" he found himself asking. Images of the grounds being infested with Walkers clouded his mind, and a cold shudder went through him at the thought.

Anna's gaze fell to the Walkers stumbling on the ground below, forever lost in some eternal quest for food. "When it…began to happen…there were still officers staying at the house," she began to explain. Matthew remembered how Bates had told him that during the War, Downton had been converted into a convalescent home. Oh God, was _that_ how it had come to Yorkshire? Anna had said earlier that Downton Village was the first to fall; did an officer carry that disease that Reggie had described to him, into the convalescent home? Anna obviously could read his thoughts. "We don't know, really," she murmured. "It all happened so suddenly. We'll never know if…if it had come from the hospital, or the village, or even within the house. But…a great deal of those men did rise up to fight, despite the state they were in, and many lost their lives," she sadly whispered. "If it weren't for those officers, I think Downton would have been run over, and fallen beside the village."

Matthew swallowed the emotional lump in his throat. He had seen so many men die in both the trenches and on the battlefield. And he had seen so much bravery, even though those men knew that they were facing death

"When it was over, we buried the bodies on grounds," Anna continued, after taking a deep, calming breath. "For…months, we had to be careful if we went outside of the house. The grounds were so large, as you know, that it wasn't unusual for a…a Walker…to wander nearby. But with the help of his Lordship, and Mr. Bates…many of us were taught how to shoot, so we could protect everyone."

Matthew looked at Anna in amazement. "Including the women?" he realized how that must have sounded, and remembering his cousin Sybil, knew that she would quite properly give him a slap for uttering such a question. "Forgive me, I didn't mean for that to sound—"

"It's quite alright, Capt. Crawley," Anna giggled. "The truth is, I asked Mr. Bates to teach me…and I can't deny he was a little reluctant at first, but I insisted…just as I insisted I would accompany him on this scouting venture."

Matthew continued to look at Anna in amazement. There was a fire in her eyes, one that dared any man to question her strength and conviction. No, he had a feeling that Anna Smith was more than capable in handling a gun and fighting Walkers if the need arose. In some ways, it reminded him of Lavinia's revelation, about how she had killed several Walkers with her frying pan. The memory brought a sad smile to his face…

"So Downton has become a fortress then," he murmured. "A haven in the midst of this…nightmare."

Anna silently nodded her head. "I suppose you could call it that. As Mr. Bates told you, it's been four weeks since we saw anything about the grounds…or in the village. We were hoping that maybe…things had gotten better. But sadly…" she looked down at frowned as she gazed upon the Walkers shuffling through the street, bumping into one another, into buildings, moaning as they clawed at the walls, clearly wanting to get inside the pawn shop, but not knowing how, exactly.

A realization suddenly dawned on Matthew. "How did William get out, yesterday? From the looks of things, you've been holed up here for quite some time."

Anna nodded her head in the direction of a nearby roof. "The ledge to that building isn't so far from this one. A person can make it if they have a good running leap. William jumped there the other day, and discovered a way to move about on the shorter roofs of other buildings, before eventually climbing down onto the street. Thomas had said something about a car, and William thought he would investigate—"

"A car?" Matthew asked, turning his head back to her, his eyes widening at the word.

Anna nodded her head. "Thomas saw it, earlier yesterday. You see, when we arrived at Malton, we found ourselves separated when the…Walkers, began to attack," she explained. "Thomas ran one direction while the rest of us ran another. He was missing for a great part of the day; we even thought he had been killed. But early this morning he somehow found us, or rather, found the pawn shop where we took shelter. Mr. Bates heard Thomas firing his gun just outside, and then ran out there to shoot at other Walkers, giving Thomas the opportunity to make it inside."

Matthew was amazed by this story. Perhaps that was why Thomas—Sgt. Barrow, he reminded himself, had seemed so…standoffish. The man had just survived being killed—

Matthew's face paled. "Was he bitten?" he asked Anna, his voice low but desperate.

"Bitten?"

"Yes!" he hissed. "Did you see any blood? Teeth marks? Anything?"

Anna shook her head. "I mean, there was blood on him, but it wasn't his. No, by some miracle, he survived the night on his own."

Matthew closed his eyes and sighed with relief.

"Why?" Anna asked.

His eyes opened, and he frowned at her question. Was she unaware of what happened if one was bitten? But…surely they knew, if the house had been attacked? Or had those officers managed to keep the Walkers from entering?

He opened his mouth to answer her, but suddenly something she had said dawned on him. "Wait…didn't you say that Thomas told William about seeing a car?"

Anna nodded her head. "Yes, while he was making his way through the village, on his way to the pawn shop, he saw it. Said it was crashed near fence post, but other than that…looked to be fairly good condition. More importantly, he saw the keys inside."

Was it possible? Had his attacker from the farm house abandoned the car Reggie had given him? The car was running low on petrol, perhaps it had run out, thus causing the thief to abandon it. Which created another problem; even if they were able to get to the car, they would still need petrol—and that was all depending on whether it was the same car. But either way, if they could get to a car, it would be easier than outrunning the Walkers, and get them out of Malton and back to Downton, faster.

"When the sun rises, I want Thomas to take me to it," Matthew said with an air of determination.

Anna frowned. "But how? I mean, it's too dangerous to move down on the ground, especially since they know that we're here. That's why they won't move away," she gestured with her head towards the Walkers that continued looming around the pawn shop. "And while William's discovery with the roofs worked, it only worked for so long. Eventually we'll have to climb back down to the street."

Matthew scratched his chin, already trying to recall old battle strategies he had used during the War. He remembered a mission he and William had gone on, just prior to his injury. He remembered how they were behind enemy lines, and the Germans were on top of them. If they were discovered, they would be killed on sight. So they did the only they could do to avoid being noticed.

Yes…it just might work!

Although it would take some careful planning. But they were in a pawn shop, and that did mean they had a great many things at their disposal if need be. Yes…they could gather weapons, or anything that could be used for a weapon, and then one of them could act as sniper on the roofs, while he and another could go in search of the car Thomas had seen (as well as petrol, just in case), and two others could be ready at the gate, to fight off any that would attack when they found the car and brought it to the shop. Yes…it could just work…

"Here now, what's going on out here?" Sgt. Barrow yawned, poking his head out and looking at the two of them.

Matthew found himself grinning, despite the idea. "I've been just thinking about how we're going to escape Malton," he explained, before looking Thomas directly in the eye. "And I'm afraid you're not going to like it."

* * *

He hated it.

He didn't care how many times Capt. Crawley tried to reason the details with him; this was a _bad plan_.

"Look at this!" William announces, pulling two fencing swords from a cupboard at the other side of the shop. He swings one of the swords through the air, a stupid smile spreading across his face. Who does he think he is, a bloody musketeer? Thomas simply huffs, desperate for a cigarette, but he's clean out. Doesn't matter, really; all the nicotine in the world wouldn't be able to calm his nerves for what Capt. Crawley has suggested they do.

"You actually trust him up there?" Thomas hisses to Capt. Crawley, who is busy reloading all the guns they have managed to gather, while Anna and Mr. Bates continue looking for more supplies.

Capt. Crawley paused in his task, and glanced across the shop at William. "Pvt. Mason is a very good shot, from what I recall," he mutters under his breath. "He did our unit well, during the War. I think he's our best bet to keep our cover from above the street, if the need arises. Besides, he clearly can navigate the rooftops better than anyone else."

Thomas grimaced and turned his attention back to the shop window. He swallowed as he looked at all the Walkers who were wandering around outside. Too many…there were far too many…they were going to be killed!

"This isn't going to work…" he began mumble.

"Have faith, Barrow," Capt. Crawley merely replied, still reloading guns.

Thomas wanted to throw a curse at the captain, but somehow managed to keep his mouth shut. "What makes you even think it could work?"

Capt. Crawley once again paused in his task, and this time turned to look at Thomas. "What do we know of those creatures? We know that they can't run, not really, but they have a very astute sense of hearing and smell. And sight too, for that matter. But...if a man looks like one of them, moves like one of them, sounds like one of them, and…smells like one of them—"

Thomas turned away, his face paling as he once again recalled what Capt. Crawley had suggested earlier.

"During the War, William and I found ourselves trapped behind enemy lines. Some soldiers were on our tail, and they had dogs. If they found us, we would be killed. So there was only one thing we could do…

"Just ahead of us was a mass grave, where they had thrown dozens of bodies. Both Pvt. Mason and I leapt into that grave, and hid under those bodies for...I'd dare say at least an hour, although it felt like a frightful eternity. But it kept them from finding us…and it kept the dogs off our trail as well."

All of them looked repulsed by what the captain had to suggest after that. However, none of them looked more appalled than Thomas.

"I don't understand why it has to be me," he muttered under his breath, although it was loud enough for anyone close by to hear. "Bates is more of the limper than I am; surely he can blend in better!"

Mr. Bates paused in his search and lifted his head, glaring back at him. "I'm not the one who saw the car that you kept blabbering on about yesterday," he growled. "The one that you claim to know exactly where it is, even though you insisted that William be the one to go and look for it—"

"That's enough," Capt. Crawley ordered, purposefully coming to stand between the two men. Thomas merely glared back at Bates, but said nothing further. His time would come; Bates wouldn't be laughing then.

He turned once more and looked out the window. They all had their parts to play. William would go up to the roof and be ready to serve as sniper to cover them. Bates and Anna would be at the shop's door, guns loaded and ready to fire. He and Capt. Crawley…well, they would get the car. And they had the most disgusting job of all.

"I think that's all there is," Anna declared, wiping her brow and closing a drawer behind the shop's main desk. "We've searched this place high and low…I think we've managed to find every gun and weapon we could use."

"Good work," Capt. Crawley murmured, turning his attention now to the world outside. "Now comes the hard part…"

Mr. Bates had a gun loaded and ready, and joined Capt. Crawley by his side. "Are you sure this is the only way?"

Capt. Crawley sighed. "Am I sure? No, I'm not sure…but I can't think of a better plan."

Thomas groaned and stepped away from the door. He was being forced to go out and help Capt. Crawley find the car. That didn't mean he had to do what the good captain and Mr. Bates were preparing to do.

"Ready?" Capt. Crawley asked. He turned and looked at the rest of them; Anna and William each picked up a rifle, removed the safety, and aimed them at the door. Thomas took another step back, one closer to the door that led to the upstairs flat. He had a pistol in his hands, and he was prepared to use it if need be, but hopefully he wouldn't have to. Hopefully he wouldn't have to do anything.

Capt. Crawley nodded his head. "Alright Bates…open the door."

* * *

The next few minutes were pure madness.

John Bates didn't hesitate; the second Capt. Crawley told him to open the door, he shoved the barricade aside, unlocked the door, threw the doors open, and began to work the lock at the metal fence…while Capt. Crawley fired his pistol at the Walkers that immediately began to snarl and gather, while he opened the gate…allowing Hell to spill inside.

Four Walkers fell at the feet of the gate by Capt. Crawley's pistol. As soon as Bates had unlocked the gate, he moved as quickly as he could away from it, while Capt. Crawley kept firing, as did Anna, whose rifle was cocked and aimed straight ahead.

So many; there seemed to be so many.

The plan was to only let a few inside. Capt. Crawley would fire at the ones close to the gate. This created its own barricade, as some of the Walkers had to climb over the fallen bodies in front of them. Anna would cover both himself and Capt. Crawley, firing at any Walkers that tried to attack them. William's job was to get the Walkers that managed to get inside. They only needed two, but they all knew it was unlikely that _only_ two would enter.

He was barreled to the side when a sudden stream of the monsters stumbled over the fallen bodies, eager to get in the shop, eager to feed on the prey that was inside, despite the fact that their prey was firing bullets at them.

"On your feet, Bates!" Capt. Crawley shouted, taking another loaded pistol from his belt and shooting an oncoming Walker through the fence. "On your feet and close the gate!"

His leg was causing him problems, and he grunted as he tried to rise up and do what Capt. Crawley commanded. He could hear shots being fired behind him, and only prayed that William was doing his part and keeping Anna safe. He finally got on his feet, and reached forward, grabbing the gate while Capt. Crawley and Anna continued to shoot. He gasped as a bullet screamed past his left ear, and then heard Anna cry out a quick, "sorry!" Didn't matter; her target was met, as a Walker who was trying to force its way inside fell to the ground. He had taught her well, it would seem.

"This isn't going to work," Capt. Crawley muttered. "Fall back, Bates, just help me close this door and get that barricade up!"

He was right, of course. Too many bodies had fallen in front of the gate, and would make it too difficult to try and close it. He did was Capt. Crawley commanded, falling back and helping the future Earl of Grantham push the shop's doors shut, despite the Walkers that were straining to get inside. "Don't fire anymore, Anna!" Capt. Crawley grunted, as he pushed at the door. "You may shatter the glass, and then they'll be upon us in a matter of seconds!"

William rushed forward then (clearly his task had been completed) and did what he could to help push the door closed. Even Anna ran forward, and began to push the heavy cabinet they had used for a barricade back against the door. It was too heavy for one person to move, and Bates glanced at Thomas…who was standing in a corner, looking like he was ready to run.

"Get your arse over here and help her!" Bates growled at the frightened footman.

Thomas looked up, and for a brief moment, came out of his stupor, at least long enough to send Bates a nasty glare. However, he didn't argue; he valued living another day, and so quickly moved to Anna's side, and helped her with pushing the cabinet. They shoved as he and William continued pushed against the mob, pushing as hard as they could to shut the doors, while Capt. Crawley threw his empty pistol down on the floor, before removing a knife and slicing a Walker through the chin, right up into the brain.

The Walker fell…the door closed...and the cabinet was shoved in place.

But there was little time to breathe any sighs of relief. Without the gate to help keep the Walkers away, it would only be a matter of time before they would finally be able to push through the door, and push the cabinet out of the way…

They needed to move fast.

"Thomas, you and William grab that one and drag it to the stairs; Capt. Crawley and I will take this one," Bates commanded, bending down to retrieve the ankles of one of the fallen Walkers.

Thomas stared at Bates in both shock and disgust. "You want me to do _what?"_

"We can't stay here!" Bates growled. "They'll get inside, sooner rather than later. We need to get up to the flat, and that's where we'll continue with Capt. Crawley's plan; Anna, grab as many of the weapons as you can," he directed, but she was well ahead of him, already slinging the bags and satchels of bullets, guns, and knives over her shoulders. God, could he love that woman more?

"I'm not touching that thing!" Thomas protested. "And you can't make me! You're not my superior, you—"

"Sgt. Barrow!" Capt. Crawley shouted. "I am ORDERING you to do as Bates says, because _I AM_ YOUR SUPERIOR!"

William made a snorting sound, which he tried to immediately cover up as if he were gagging from having to grab the ankles of one of the dead Walkers.

Thomas looked back and forth between himself and Capt. Crawley, before finally making a sound of disgust, and reaching down and grabbing the dirty sleeves of the dead Walker to whom William was holding the ankles. He kept muttering something under his breath; curses no doubt, but Bates didn't care. He had long stopped caring about what Thomas Barrow thought of him.

Anna led the way up the stairs of the flat, while Thomas and William dragged one Walker, and he and Capt. Crawley dragged the other. Once they were up the stairs, William and Anna went back to lock and barricade the door between the shop and the flat as best they could, while Bates reached into one of the weapon bags, and pulled out a large hunting knife, with a sharp, serrated blade. No time like the present.

"Oh God!" Thomas gagged, as Bates, without a moment's pause, began cutting deep into one of the dead Walkers, as if he were slicing into a buck or a boar, and removing the organs.

"Bloody hell!" William swore, covering his mouth and nose as the foul smell began to permeate the flat. Anna coughed too, and Capt. Crawley had to go and poke his head out of a window, for fear he would be sick. It was nasty work, no doubt about that, but Bates gritted his teeth and continued, first with one Walker, and then with the other.

"Alright…" he gasped, lifting his head and trying to keep the nausea at bay. "Let's go."

Capt. Crawley swallowed, and then with firm nod, approached Bates and held out his arms, as if he were waiting for a fitting. Bates wasted no time; with a quick breath through is mouth, he dug his hands into the corpse…and began smearing the dead blood and guts all over Capt. Crawley's shirt and jacket.

"I can't do this..." Thomas gasped, looking like he was going to pass out. "I can't do this…I can't do this…"

"Anna, help him!" Bates call out, his own eyes focused on the task at hand, still smearing Capt. Crawley with the dead creature's insides.

Anna pushed Thomas down onto a chair, and pushed his head down to his knees, before squeezing his shoulders and holding him in that position, murmuring for him to breathe slowly, deeply, reminding him that this would help them, that they soon would free from this place and on the way back to Downton. Was she helping Thomas? He didn't know, but Bates had a feeling that if anyone could help calm him down and convince him to do this, it would be her.

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Capt. Crawley managed to gasp. His chest, arms, shoulders, back, and even his face and hair were drenched in the grime that had once been the Walker. "Let's just pray this will convince them," he attempted to joke, when it was clear all he wanted to do was gag. "Otherwise, this will all have been for nothing."

"It will work, sir, I am sure of it!" William stated, trying to be the voice of optimism.

"Thomas," Bates grunted, wanting to get this whole thing over with as soon as possible. "Come on, you're next."

Thomas was actually crying, and despite the hatred that the two men had stored up and shared for many years, Bates actually felt sorry for the poor man.

"Come on, Barrow," Capt. Crawley commanded, although his voice was a little gentler than before. "Let's get this over and done with and get out of here."

Despite his blubbering protests, with Anna's help, Thomas was able to stand and slowly make his way over to where Bates stood, ready to smear the other dead Walker's remains all over him. "Oh God!" he cried, as Bates began his work, the stink and gore wafting up and filling the former footman's nostrils.

"If you're going to be sick, then be sick," Bates grunted as he continued adorning Thomas in the creature's blood. "Just…please, whatever you do, don't faint!" Thomas' kept his eyes closed and his mouth teeth clenched, hissing in desperate breaths while Bates covered him, just as he had covered Capt. Crawley.

"Change of plans," Capt. Crawley muttered, trying to help the situation by providing some form of distraction. "We all go out onto the roofs; you three will follow close behind Sgt. Barrow and me, but you will stay on the roofs, while Sgt. Barrow and I fetch the car. You can help Pvt. Mason with shooting, when the time comes. But as soon as we are able…and once we start that car…you will have to act quickly, because they will be upon us within a matter of seconds."

Anna and William nodded their heads, while Bates finished the last of his gruesome task. "You're done," he muttered to Thomas, who still didn't say a word, just tried to keep his frightened tears and sniffles from overwhelming him again.

A sudden crash erupted downstairs. "They're inside!" Anna gasped, her eyes meeting his from across the flat.

"Go!" Bates hissed, before grabbing one of the weapon satchels, and pushing the lot of them out the door that led to the roof. There was no turning back now; either this plan would work and they would soon find themselves free and racing back to Downton…

...Or the village of Malton would claim five more lives.

* * *

He had never moved this slowly in his life.

Even when he and William were on a mission during the War, moving through the shadows late at night, with only those shadows to protect them while they were behind enemy lines…he hadn't moved half as slowly as he was moving now.

It was the most terrifying, unnerving, and tense experience he had ever put himself through…

But by God, it was working!

As soon as they had all made it onto the roof, William quickly showed them how he had managed to get from one building to another the other day, and they followed suit, although it wasn't easy for Bates, the poor chap, because of his leg. He even tried to suggest that they go on without him, that he would stay where he was and wait—but unsurprisingly, Anna interrupted him and refused to hear the matter further. That was the end of that discussion.

He and Thomas, in their present, disgusting state, didn't climb down to the ground until they had managed to climb and pass over at least eleven rooftops, before William found a small alleyway, that looked deserted and had no Walkers close by. This was it. Thomas believed the car he had seen was but four streets from the building they were at, and possibly two turns to the left; it wasn't so far when you came to think about it…

But when you threw in the fact that the world was now trapped somewhere in the seventh circle of Hell…well, then such a "simple" journey seemed like scaling Mount Everest.

Carefully, both he and Thomas climbed down a rusted ladder, and with slow, quiet steps, began to move down the alley, making sure not to make a great deal of noise as they passed overturned rubbish bins and stepped over rotted bones.

"Remember," slow steps…shuffle your feet slightly, if you must. But no erratic movement!" Matthew hissed. "And don't speak, either…groan if you must, but…just don't draw attention to yourself!"

He was worried for Sgt. Barrow; the man had only made despairing whimpers ever since Bates smeared the remains of the Walker all over him. He seemed to be lost in his own haze, and Matthew was worried the man would pass out from the shock and disgust of it all…or worse, panic as soon as they came upon a Walker.

They didn't have time to speak further on what to do when they saw a Walker…because as soon as they stumbled out of the alley…a Walker stumbled past them.

A strangled hitch escaped Thomas' throat, but the man somehow managed to keep himself from screaming. Matthew swallowed and tried to keep his eyes from looking…alive…and stared off into space…as the Walker paused momentarily, lifted its nose as if to smell the air…and then continued on its endless journey to who knows where.

It was working…

Matthew caught Thomas' eye, and nodded his head to offer the man a look of reassurance. Onward, they continued.

It felt like an eternity, walking those street lengths. As they made their way further and further down the street, they encountered more and more Walkers. And like that first one they met, they paused…sniffed the air, but instead of turning on them and reaching towards them to take a bite…they kept moving in whatever direction they were heading, although if it were possible for a dead thing to look confused…confused, they looked.

Matthew kept glancing at Thomas. The man was either that brilliant at moving like a Walker, or he was just that traumatized that it came naturally. He had a feeling it was the latter. "Nearly there…" Matthew muttered. God, he hoped so. Before they climbed down the ladder from the roof, Matthew actually shook Thomas' shoulders, asking him at least three times if he was positive the car he had seen was exactly the length of streets he had said. Thomas seemed fairly sure, but at the same time, he was looking like he was going to be sick. _Please, please be around this corner, please be around this corner!_

"Aumgh…"

Matthew nearly stumbled as a Walker, _a small girl_, suddenly appeared at his side. She was moving like the others…but she was looking up at him…and Matthew swore his blood froze in his veins.

He would settle for the confused expression on those creatures any day…especially over the…_interested_ expression, the girl wore.

She was sniffing him. Her face was leaning into his arm, and she was sniffing his blood-soaked sleeve. _Stay calm…don't panic…if you panic, she will attack…_

"Algumgh…" she groaned again, her tongue darting out and licking a bit of the grime from his sleeve.

"Oh God…" Thomas muttered under his breath, his stupor lifting long enough for him to realize what was happening.

"Keep calm, Barrow…" Matthew hissed, even though inwardly, he agreed with the former footman's sentiment.

She looked up at him again, and even though his instincts told him to not make eye contact, to keep moving at the slow pace of a Walker…he found himself gazing back into her eyes…her lifeless, gray eyes…

And his blinked.

"Ahhhglmph!"

She knew. Oh God, she knew!

She bared her teeth, brown and rotting but deadly, and a cruel hiss escaped her lungs. He would have to break this façade to defend himself, he would have to—

The child fell, crumpling on the ground at his feet, while the thunder of a rifle filled the air.

Both Matthew and Thomas froze and turned their heads (a bit too fast for what they were portraying) but another gunshot echoed off a building, and another Walker, one just over Thomas' shoulder, also fell to the ground, dead.

Any attention Matthew and Thomas were possibly drawing before was gone now, as all the other Walkers began to turn and head towards the noise, looking up at the rooftops just behind them. Good job, Mason! He smiled, but it was fleeting smile; now was not the time to celebrate. In fact, with all that attention that gunfire was causing, their friends would soon be swamped and overwhelmed. Now was the time to act!

"Hurry Barrow," Matthew muttered, poking his head around the corner, a deep sigh of relief escaping his lungs as he saw no Walker in sight…but even better…he saw Reggie's car!

_It was his car!_ How on earth had it ended up…?

Oh no…the petrol. He had completely forgotten about having to get petrol to fill it!

"It's still there…" Thomas gasped, seeing the car and for the first time since this horrific performance began, smiled and began rushing forwards, ready to launch himself inside the car. "It's still here!"

Matthew also rushed forward, but began looking everywhere he could, trying to see if a petrol station was nearby, but there was no such luck.

"The keys are still here!" Thomas cried like a gleeful child.

That will do little good without petrol.

"The damage isn't so bad," Thomas declared, examining the car's front bumper, which had run into a fence post. "It should run fine, I think!"

"We need petrol…" Matthew sighed.

"It has petrol."

"What?" Matthew looked up at Thomas as if he were mad. How could he tell that by just looking at it? He knew that the man wanted to get out of Malton as desperately as the rest of them, but there was no point in lying to oneself just for that purpose. "No, this is the car I was talking about yesterday, the one that was stolen from me; I barely had any petrol in it then, I'm sure it's out—"

Thomas hadn't bothered to listen to him. He was already flinging off his muck-covered jacket, climbing into the car and settling himself behind the wheel and starting the bloody thing!

The engine roared to life.

What? How…how could that be?

"It's working!" Thomas happily declared. "Come on, sir; come on! See? It's fine, we can leave now, let's leave! Let's go! Please!" His voice was an eerie combination of joy and frightened desperation.

An engine that comes on doesn't necessarily means there's enough petrol for a journey…but at the same time, he heard the gunshots in the distance begin to increase…and the sound of the car had alerted some unwanted company…as two Walkers emerged from a building near where the car had crashed.

He would sit and ponder these things later. "Move over, Barrow!" Matthew ordered, throwing off his own jacket and climbing inside the car, getting behind the wheel, pushing down on the pedals and removing the brake—

By God, Thomas was right. _It was working!_

"Hold on!" he shouted, reversing the car away from the fence, and then shifting gears until it could drive forward.

A Walker threw itself on top of the bonnet, but Matthew jerked the car around a corner, that the creature went flying off. "Cover us, Barrow!" Matthew shouted, tossing a pistol to Thomas' lap. Thomas stared down at the gun as if Matthew were insane; however when another Walker attempted to leap into the car, Thomas didn't hesitate, and fired the gun at the creature. It too, flew off.

"Good God in heaven…" Matthew gasped, as the building where they had left the others came into view. It was surrounded; Walkers were gathered all over, and there were a few trying to climb the ladder, even though they seemed to be struggling. "Get ready, sergeant," Matthew growled, his foot purposefully hitting the accelerator, causing the car to roar even louder than before. This certainly got the attention of William, Anna, and Bates…as well as the Walkers.

The other three quickly began to move over a few more roofs, following William who continued firing at the crowd below. Matthew drove forward, barreling into a few Walkers on the way, taking out his second pistol and joining Thomas in firing at any that tried to get into the car, again.

"Give me the satchels!" Bates shouted, and threw William and Anna's weapons bags down into the open backseat of the car. They were standing on the roof of a building that was only two stories tall. A roof over the porch was fairly low, and if the car could get close enough, they could jump inside from there. "You first, Anna!" Bates shouted. She looked at him as if he were mad, but he gave her a look that warned her not to argue with him, not right now, as well as a look of encouragement that she could do this.

Matthew read Bates' mind, and drove the car as close as he could to the porch roof. William fired from above, while Thomas fired from within the car. Anna gave Bates one more look, before taking a deep breath and leaping, gasping loudly as she fell, and then landed in the backseat of the open-roofed vehicle.

"GO WILLIAM!" Bates shouted, but the younger man turned to protest, clearly feeling he was the better shot of the two and should be the last to jump—

Bates pushed him forward, and William cried out as he landed, hard, in the backseat next to Anna.

"HURRY!" Matthew cried, firing his pistol directly into the open, snarling mouth of a Walker that tried to bite his elbow.

"DRIVE AROUND!" Bates shouted, seeing the danger that they were in for just sitting there. "DRIVE AROUND; I'LL MEET YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE!"

"JOHN, NO!" Anna cried, but William held her fast as she attempted to leap out of the car.

Matthew cursed under his breath, and pushed his foot down on the pedals, turning the wheel fast and barreling around the building, as Bates raced across the roof, leaping onto another, while the Walkers on the ground tried to follow the car, even though they couldn't quite keep up with its increasing speed.

"Let's just go, now!" Thomas cried.

"NO!" Anna shouted. "We are NOT leaving Mr. Bates!"

"No we bloody well are not!" Matthew promised, turning the wheel rapidly, speeding ahead and coming around the current building that Bates was running atop.

This building, however, was taller than the last. And there was no porch roof to step out on.

"He won't be able to make it…" Anna gasped, seeing how far he would have to jump.

"They're coming!" William warned, and Matthew saw in a mirror that Walkers from elsewhere were coming around several corners, drawn by the noise that their shouts, gunshots, and the car was making. "We need to do something, now!"

"JUMP, BATES, JUMP!" Matthew yelled over his shoulder.

Bates looked down at them, saw the oncoming Walkers, and saw the desperation on all their faces, especially the face of the woman he loved. This was it…now or never.

Anna threw a hand across her mouth to bite back the scream, as with a deep breath, John Bates jumped…


	9. Return

_Happy Hallo-week! Because of a certain spooky holiday, between now and Oct. 31, I will be dedicating my writing time exclusively to Downton Abbey & Zombies, so all going well, I will hopefully have more updates coming very soon! And just one more head's up...this is the chapter where we will start to learn about the fates of some characters, so be prepared! THANK YOU for following and reading and all the lovely comments! I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter Nine_

"**Return"**

Solemn.

That was the word to best describe the present attitude in the car. Solemn…and heart-wrenching.

The "heart-wrenching" was in reference to the agonizing moans of pain that were emanating from John Bates, who was lying across the backseat, his broken leg stretched out, while his head was nestled on Anna's lap, who was trying to soothe his pain by running her fingers through his hair, while at the same time trying to keep her sniffles from turning into sobs.

They had all held their breath when Bates made the jump from the roof into the car. He landed awkwardly, his leg (his bad leg) giving out from beneath him, and they all heard the loud snap of bones breaking. He fell backwards and cried out in pain, Anna clutching him and shouting his name over and over. But Bates muttered a loud "GO!" and Matthew didn't need to be told twice. As William and Thomas continued firing at the oncoming Walkers, Matthew accelerated the Rolls-Royce down the streets, avoiding debris along the way, until finally they were out of the village and driving as fast as they could beyond the town's limits.

He stopped the car when he was satisfied that there were no more Walkers reflected in the rear-view mirror. "Sgt. Barrow, see to him!" he ordered, leaping out of the front seat. He wanted to check the boot, to see if any of the weapons that Reggie had given him were still there. Thomas began to protest, but Matthew sent the man a challenging glare, and there was no more on that subject. Thomas examined Bates' leg, muttered that it was indeed broken, and needed a splint to keep the bone from protruding further. They were quite literally in the middle of nowhere, and nothing but wheat fields for miles and miles. "So…if we take this road, it will eventually lead us to Downton Village," Matthew assessed. "We'll stop there to gather more supplies, including finding a proper brace."

"But…but we'll be so close to the house—"

"And prolong Bates' agony? No, we'll not do that anymore than we have to," Matthew muttered, shutting the boot. "Besides, it will be good to see what can be salvaged from the village…" although if truth be told, Matthew had other motives for wanting to stop.

Thomas groaned, but didn't challenge the issue further. Bates was looking pale and sickly, and Anna kept whispering things in his ear, trying to help in any way that she could, although it was clear just by looking at her that she felt quite helpless in the situation. Matthew sighed, before climbing back behind the wheel. "You'll be alright, Bates, I promise." How could he make such a promise when the world had fallen into madness? It was the sort of thing he would tell his men on the front, before they charged into battle. But Bates was a former-military man, and Matthew was sure he understood. At least they were all still alive.

_But for how much longer?_ He frowned at the doubtful voice that filled his head. _How much longer, until those monsters make their way from Malton…to Downton?_ He started the car and listened as the engine, once again, roared back to life. He would concentrate on that question later, when he was back amongst familiar faces. He would also concentrate on other questions then, too; including how the car was working so well, after its mysterious disappearance…as well as what had happened to all those weapons Reggie had given him…which _were_ missing from the boot.

* * *

She did this every morning. She stood there, in the corridor, just outside her bedroom, and gazed out the round window that looked to the west, the very direction of where _his_ house lay.

_His house…_

Before the world had erupted into madness, she had gone there. It wasn't so far away, if the weather was decent, one could easily walk to it. She knew he wasn't inside, but that didn't stop her from going and…just standing there, near the entrance to the lane that led to the house, and gaze up at it.

_It could have been mine_, she would think to herself. It wasn't a grand estate, not the way Downton was, but she was discovering as the years passed that she didn't need grand things…so long as there was someone who thought _she_ was grand, just as she was.

"What are you doing?"

Her thoughts were shaken by the voice she despised more than any other. "Nothing," she muttered, not even bothering to turn her head and look at her sister.

Usually Mary would go her own way and leave her in peace. They rarely spoke to each other anymore, and as far as Edith was concerned, she believed she could do just fine for the rest of her life without having to exchange another word with her sister. But for some reason, today Mary didn't just "leave it"; for some reason, she came up beside her, and looked out the window into the distance. "What on earth are you gawking at?"

Edith felt her jaw clench, and her hands, which were wrapped around her body, began to hug herself even tighter. "What concern is it of yours?"

Mary turned and looked at her with an arched eyebrow. Edith hated that look. It spoke volumes. "My, my, we didn't wake up on the right side of the bed this morning, did we?"

Edith glared at her sister, her hands falling away from her body and clenching into fists. "Don't you have someplace to be? Some other poor soul to torment? Can't you leave me in peace?"

Mary narrowed her eyes then and lifted her chin in that haughty way that only their grandmother could perfect. "I think you're left in peace 'too often'," she snidely remarked. "I think you spend too much time sitting and feeling sorry for yourself."

Edith narrowed her eyes and glared back at Mary. "No thanks to you."

"Oh God, not that again," Mary groaned, a hand coming up to rub the bridge of her nose. "Honestly, Edith, you're the only person I know who's still clinging to how the world was before all this happened."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes!" Mary snapped. "Wake up! The world has changed…and we must change with it," she sighed and resumed her haughty stance and expression. "There is little point in daydreaming about 'what might have been'."

Now it was Edith's turn to lift an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're trying to convince _me_, dear sister? _Or yourself?"_

Mary glared at her. "I _have_ moved forward," she hissed. "It's time for you to stop sniveling and do the same."

She turned on her heel then and began to walk away. Normally Edith would shoot daggers at Mary's retreating back with her eyes…but this time, she wasn't ready to let the subject go. "We would be married, by now," she hissed at her sister. "We may even have started a family! But no, no one is allowed to 'outshine' the grand Lady Mary Crawley before she—"

"I accept the fact that I meddled," Mary growled, whirling around and cutting her sister off. "Yes, I will admit it, if you that is what you want to hear. I meddled; I purposefully tried to turn Sir Anthony away from you as revenge because you had tried to ruin my reputation!" Edith opened her mouth to retort, but Mary put up a hand to "silence" her, and much as Edith hated herself in retrospect, she did just that. "BUT…if he truly _loved_ you, as you so desperately wish to believe, then he wouldn't have simply walked away like that. If you're going to despise me, Edith, at least despise me for the right reasons, rather than for the cold, hard truth that he just _didn't_ love you!""

Edith stared at her, feeling as if someone had slapped her across the face, or tossed her into icy waters. She couldn't breathe…

Mary was also breathing heavily, and there seemed to be tears glistening in her eyes, although Edith knew better than to think they were being formed or shed for her.

"He's gone; he went to war, and he's never coming back! And that is the truth and the world in which we must live, so…so…stop pretending otherwise!" She turned on her heel then and left Edith standing there, watching her retreating figure as a wave of numbness once again fell upon her.

_She's wrong,_ she found herself thinking. _He _did_ love me, I'm sure of it. He wanted to marry me, to live the rest of his days with me…_

And yet…even though she didn't want to, she did find herself resenting him for leaving that party before she had a chance to explain herself, or learn what had been said. And she resented him for not telling her that he was going back into service, that he was departing for France, for never sending any word of his whereabouts or condition…leaving her to forever wonder what had become of him.

But she resented her sister more. She resented that Mary had reminded her of these fears that she had been trying so hard to suppress…ever since the day Sir Anthony Strallen disappeared.

* * *

He was furious.

How had he let this happen? He should have followed his instincts and at first light, he should have left! He should be out there, looking for his brother, not trapped here like some…some…

Servant.

No, _slave_ was more like it. Servants got paid at least.

After that brief encounter with the butler, Tom had been brought to the library, to see his Lordship. He remembered staring in awe at the room, seeing all the books on the shelves. Lord, it had been so long since he had last read a book. He loved reading; he spent more of his free time reading than going down to the pub, much to his brother's confusion. Of course, that was his life _before_ all this had happened…

In the corner of the library sat an elderly woman. She seemed to be staring out the window, but Tom had no idea at what, exactly. He hadn't seen her last night, but judging by the way she was dressed, it was easy to guess which side of the staircase she lived on. His Lordship then launched into the usual pleasantries, asking how he had slept, hoping that he had been given a good meal, and all that nonsense. Tom put on a smile, but if truth be told, he was feeling nervous. _Go with your instinct, that's what Kieran is always telling you!_ If his brother were here now, he'd be hearing a great big "I told you so". His Lordship then got to the point: he needed a chauffeur.

Tom stared blankly at the man for a few seconds. Had he just been offered…a job? As if…it were any other day, in the middle of a perfectly normal world…_without_ the dead coming back to life?

_"Our last driver, bless his soul…well, the thing is, Branson, we are desperate. There's no one here who can drive, and every so often we do have a need to go into town and get supplies…"_

Tom had stared at his Lordship as if the man had sprouted a second head. He knew that posh people lived in a world far different from the one that he (and normal people as far as he was concerned) resided in, but…they needed a driver to take them into town? Take who? Her Ladyship? His daughters? Did they still think the dressmaker's existed? Good God almighty, this was a mad house!

He tried to "politely" decline the offer; he reminded his Lordship that he needed to find his brother, but the Earl of Grantham was clever and had apparently already thought of that.

_"You can stay here while you do; I mean, until you find him, where will you stay? Camp out on the roadside like some nomad? No, that's hardly practical Branson, you should stay here, I insist! And when you are not needed to drive the motor, you can spend the time in search of your brother."_

The polite approach wasn't getting through. He would have to be more adamant and explain that he _didn't want_ the job. Besides, he doubted that any of these people who still worked for him were getting paid. The banks were the first to collapse, quickly followed by the government—a cruel reminder that money makes the world go round. Apparently his Lordship was reading his thoughts.

_"Now, I'm sure you're wondering how you will be paid. I can't pay you right now, which I know is a lot, but once everything goes back to normal, I will make sure you get what's owed to you, as well as a little extra."_

If he weren't in so much shock by the man's belief that things would one day "go back to normal", he would have burst out laughing.

_"But what I can provide, as I said, is a safe place to sleep, food for your body, and…as many books as you would like to read."_

So his Lordship had noticed the way he had looked at the room when he entered? Still, if he thought that something like that could convince him to say yes—

_"I can't deny that I am also in awe of your skills as a marksman, and we could use another gun around the house; someone who I know can help protect my daughters…"_

Tom's protests came to a grinding halt. Once again, his mind was reminded of the daughter whom he had met the other night, who had nearly killed that monster with a tree branch…and who had been at his door the following morning. _Sybil…_

_"So will you accept my offer? Will you join the staff here at Downton, and serve as its chauffeur? And…if you do find your brother, I'm sure we can find a place for him too!"_

Tom stiffened at this suggestion. If his Lordship knew what was good for him, he wouldn't let Kieran come within a hundred miles of a house like this.

But before he realized what he was doing, he found himself mutely nodding his head, and Lord Grantham was grinning, and then shaking his hand quite heartily. "_Splendid!"_ he had declared, and then called the grumpy butler back, announcing that he would be staying and to take him to get the livery.

Livery? He couldn't be serious! But Tom was quickly learning that Downton, or his Lordship at any rate, was indeed stuck within his own bubble.

Mr. Carson took him to where the livery was kept, and then had him meet the rest of the house's measly staff. There was the housekeeper whom he had met the previous evening, the cook, the kitchen maid, and two new faces he hadn't gotten a chance to know: one was a sour-faced woman with a ridiculous hairstyle, identified as Miss O'Brien, lady's maid to her Ladyship. And the other was a pretty housemaid with curly red hair named Ethel…who unlike Miss O'Brien seemed all too eager to be his friend.

Granted, it had been a very, _very_ long time since he had experienced the pleasure of sharing his bed, and Ethel certainly seemed to be a willing participant. If he were still the same person he had once been, he wouldn't have hesitated. But things had changed with the world, and so had he. So despite the flirtatious stares and the way she tried to run her foot over his while they were seated at the table in the Servant's Hall, he ignored her advances, and she eventually got bored.

The butler informed him that he needed to have a look at his Lordship's cars; they feared that a great many of them had stopped working, due to not having been driven in so many months. So instead of going and searching for his missing brother, Tom found himself locked away in a garage, tinkering with engines until the sun set. And that wasn't an exaggeration; he literally had been locked in the garage by Mr. Carson! _"For your protection, of course,"_ the butler explained. Tom doubted that was the only reason, but he chose to keep his mouth closed, for fear he would use the wrench he was holding on the butler rather than the Renault.

That was his first day. He hardly slept that second night; he was trying to imagine what had become of his brother. He knew Kieran could take care of himself…but he also knew that his brother could be a hot-head, and didn't always use his best judgment when it came to killing those things.

Now it was his second day. And he was determined after agreeing to this whole fiasco, that he would spend a good chunk of it looking for his brother. And then maybe he could escape this mad house and leave them all to their own devices.

Although there would be one face he would miss…and he would be lying to say he wasn't disappointed to not find her there, outside his room, as he had found her the other morning.

_Stop thinking like that, Tommy,_ he could practically hear Kieran's voice, ringing loud and clear. _She's just a bit of skirt, and you're feeling lonely. If you're that desperate, take that Ethel to bed with you, but leave the Earl's daughter out of it! Besides, no sense in getting tongue-tied over a woman!_

His brother would be right; no sense in getting tongue-tied or even in allowing himself to wonder about her. He would be leaving soon anyway. Besides, other than being pretty…and knowing how to defend herself with the most basic of supplies…what did he really know about her? _Probably has a million suitors lined up—or did. Probably stuck-up, vain, and selfish like most girls of her class. Not worth your time, not worth your time!_

He kept repeating this little mantra to himself as he made his way down the stairs to the Servant's Hall, and not bothering to say "good morning" to anyone there, grabbed an apple that was lying in a small basket on the table, and proceeded to walk out. Before exiting the house, he stopped in the store cupboard (a room that was the size of his old bedroom back in Ireland) and grabbed one of the rifles that was leaning in a corner; _his_ rifle. He was glad to see that the butler or anyone else hadn't tried to dispose of it. It wasn't loaded, but that didn't bother him. He saw a box marked "bullets" on a nearby shelf and helped himself to a hearty handful.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up from his task and locked eyes with the kitchen maid. She was a small thing, a little mousy in some respects. She had large, blue eyes that seemed to take up more and more of her face as they widened. She was the lowest one here, on the preverbal servant's totem pole. Perhaps that was why he decided he liked her…or perhaps because she had, the other night when he had arrived, backed up his story by declaring to his Lordship that his daughter _had_ nearly killed that creature; it certainly was a mark of rebellion, and he always admired that! Or perhaps it was because she reminded him of his baby sister…who he wondered if he would ever see again…

"I'm going to go look for my brother."

The kitchen maid's eyes widened. "Have…have you told Mr. Carson?"

Tom made a bit of a face at this question. "Is it necessary?"

Was it possible for the girl's eyes to get any wider? Apparently the question was so foreign to her, that she didn't quite know how to answer. "His Lordship informed me that unless they…required my services…" he gritted his teeth as he said that, once again chastising himself for allowing them to convince him to say "yes" to being "hired". "Unless I was needed, I was free to do as I please." Well, that was a rather liberal understanding of the word. But really, what else would he do other than go in search of his brother?

"So…what should I say if Mr. Carson asks?"

Tom took a bite of the apple he had grabbed. "The truth," he merely replied, and without another word or glance, he turned and left the store cupboard and the wide-eyed kitchen maid.

It was a sunny day, and the weather was getting warmer. It was amazing in some ways, how the world could look so beautiful, despite the destruction it found itself in. He found himself wondering if he should "borrow" one of his Lordship's motors for his search. No doubt he would be accused of stealing…but what could they do to him? Sack him? No…they needed him, even though he doubted they would ever admit it. As he turned his head towards the garage, something caught his eye—or rather, _someone_. He frowned and slowly approached, his grip on the rifle always firm and ready to use it if need be. However, as he got closer, he could tell it wasn't one of _those things_, but someone from the house…

_Lady Sybil._

Tom immediately felt his heart jump and his breathing quicken. This was quickly followed by a roll of the eyes and an inner curse. But even though his brain was telling him to turn around and walk in the other direction, he found himself drawn to her side…and he continued his approach.

She was kneeling on the ground, and from the look of things, she seemed to be plucking weeds; dandelions to be more precise, and throwing them into a basket. Despite his better judgment, he couldn't help but admire her. How many "well-born ladies" did basic gardening work? She was clearly, intensely invested in her project, judging by the way she would pause in her plucking to wipe her brow and adjust her bonnet. Tom watched her, his eyes roaming over her lovely face, a smile forming at his lips as he watched her grit her teeth as she pulled at a rather stubborn weed, and then his eyes began to wander…and the groan he had meant to suppress slipped out, as he took in the sight of her rather delicious looking derriere, wriggling just a bit as she fell onto all fours.

Suddenly, she was back up on her knees, a murderous look on her face as she held her sharpened trowel and sheers out in front of her, ready to use if the need arose.

Tom immediately dropped the rifle and lifted his hands in front of him as a sign of peace. "It's alright, it's just me…" he reassured in a clear, calm voice, cursing himself for the noise he had made. "I'm sorry, I…I didn't mean to frighten you."

A moment passed, before Sybil took a deep breath, and lowered her tools. "You can't be too careful," she found herself whispering, before a relieved laugh escaped her chest.

Tom found himself smiling back. "No…no you can't," he agreed. "And after what I saw you do that night with that branch…I wouldn't dare cross you with those things!"

She giggled and that pretty blush he had admired the other day, returned. She observed the fallen rifle and her brow creased a little. "Are you going somewhere?"

He nodded his head and picked up the gun. "I need to find my brother, or at the very least, begin my search for him."

"Of course," she murmured, and then rose to her feet, wiping her dirt-covered hands on the dirt-covered apron that she wore. "Where will you begin your search?"

He couldn't help but smile at her. She wasn't like any posh girl he had met before. She seemed genuinely interested and concerned about him finding Kieran. "Thought I would start with the main road just to the north," he explained. "That's the road that leads to York, I understand. He told me that if we ever got separated, to stay on that road and keep going. So hopefully, that's where I'll find him."

Like the kitchen maid, her own eyes seemed to be widening as he spoke. "So you were both going to York, then?" He remembered how he had been about to explain this to his Lordship the night he was brought in, but he also remembered how his Lordship had more or less "shut him up" on the subject. "Do you think it's true?" Sybil asked, looking at him with hopeful eyes. Tom felt his throat go dry at that look.

"I…I don't know, to be honest…" he replied. He wished he could say something that sounded more positive; he hated himself as that hopeful light began to fade. "But…there's only one way to find out, you know?"

She put on a smile and gave a small nod, but clearly his words had not resurrected any hope. But what could he say? After the things he and Kieran had experienced since all this had happened, how could he promise her that something like York was possible? That it did exist?

So instead, he decided to change the subject. "So…you're gardening?" He winced; how idiotic had that sounded? _Of course she was gardening! What, you think she plucks dandelions for her own amusement?_

Sybil looked down at her basket and tools and gave a small nod. "I try to come out here at least every other day," she explained. "Of course…please don't say anything to Papa? Or Mama? Or…anyone, really?" she groaned and rolled her eyes, something Tom couldn't help but admit, he found charming. "They don't think I should be out here without an armed escort," she grumbled. "And…while I can understand their feelings, especially after that most recent attack, I _can_ take care of myself! Women are not feeble-minded, frail creatures! We are much stronger than we look!"

Tom shook his head. "You'll hear no argument from me, milady."

She smiled up at him and once again, he felt his heart warm. "Thank you, Mr. Branson. That is a rather refreshing perspective."

He grinned. "So…I take it you're for women's rights?"

She laughed. "Am I that obvious?" Her smile faded then, and a look of disappointment began to cloud her features. "You have no idea how much I was looking forward to it…" she sighed.

"Looking forward to what?"

"The vote," she whispered. "Parliament was finally going to make a decision about the whole bloody mess—but then _this_ happened." She looked down and then gave a shake of her head. "I'm sorry…I shouldn't…that's a very selfish thought."

Tom frowned at her words. "I don't think so—"

She kept shaking her head. "No, it is, really. Here I am, standing here and complaining about a decision that was never made, while…while good people…" she paused and took a deep breath, as if trying to get her emotions under control. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," he reassured. "And don't apologize for wanting the vote. It's not selfish; no one asked for this," he murmured, holding his arms out to the world around them. "If it helps…I want freedom for Ireland, and I still want it, even though the world is nothing like it was before."

She looked at him, and he felt his heart rise once again, as that small, glimmer of hope reappeared in her eyes. _She has such gorgeous eyes…_

"So…you're an Irish Republican?"

Now it was his turn to laugh. "Am I that obvious?"

She joined in his laughter, and Tom found himself, once again, amazed by how…natural this all seemed. Standing there, talking to a woman like Lady Sybil Crawley, the daughter of an English earl, the very people he wanted out of his homeland! And yet…she was nothing like those people; she was nothing like any other person he had ever known.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, milady," he finally managed to ask when their laughter began to subside. "But…why are _you_ the one who's gardening? I mean…beggin' your pardon, but, isn't this the sort of work for…?"

She nodded her head, understanding what he was trying to say. He hoped he hadn't offended her. "That's exactly what my sister Mary thinks; why do I insist on pulling weeds and tending the flowers when someone like Ethel could do it," she rolled eyes and bent down to pick up her basket. "I _want_ to do this…I…I feel it's the least I can do," she murmured, a sad note in her voice. "I owe it to them."

_Them?_ Tom frowned at the word…and then glanced down at the ground…and finally realized where they were standing.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God," he gasped, taking a step back as if his feet would catch on fire. He stared wide-eyed at the dirt mound…that stretched far, well past the grove of oak trees that they were standing under.

It was a mass grave. And if the mound of dirt hadn't given it away, the small, wooden crosses that had been constructed to adorn it, did.

Sybil merely gave a sad nod. "Everyone who has died since…since it happened…is buried here," she explained. "From the convalescing officers who defended us…to the villagers who sought refuge…to…to other cherished friends…" her voice caught as she looked sadly upon one of the crosses, where a name had been etched. Tom peered at the cross and read the name there: _Gwen Dawson._

"I'm sorry…" he found himself whispering. He didn't know any of these people, and he had seen his fair share of death since the world had gone to hell. But he truly did feel sorrow for the poor souls who had lost their lives and were now buried on the grounds of Downton Abbey.

She gave a small smile and nodded her head in thanks. "Well…I…I should continue with my task…and I know that you have a mission of your own—"

"It can wait a little bit." Had he just said that? Whatever happened to, _I need to find Kieran as soon as possible and get out of this madhouse?_ "I know you can protect yourself…I can attest to that, but…let me stay just for a little while, in case Mr. Carson comes out here and tries to scold you for being without a 'proper escort'." As if he was a _"proper escort"._ He doubted the butler would see him as that, either. If Lady Sybil had known what he had been thinking when he spied her kneeling on all fours, she wouldn't think him very proper, either! Still…right now, despite his better judgment, he didn't want to leave her, not when she was performing such a sacred duty.

She didn't argue with him, or protest his offer, or anything of the sort. She gave a small smile, and then knelt down on the ground once more and began to resume her task. And…within a matter of seconds, he too was on the ground, helping pluck dandelions and adding them to her basket.

_This is dangerous, Tommy, very dangerous!_ His brother's voice was ringing loud and clear in his ears. _You're playing with fire, you fool! You're only going to make it harder on yourself when the time comes and you _do_ leave…_

He hated to admit it, but it was probably true. And yet…as he glanced out of the corner of his eye and watched her work…he found that he couldn't help himself. This wouldn't be the first time he did something that wasn't good for his health.

* * *

It was like nothing he had remembered. The village that he had called home for the past few years, the village where his life had changed, where he learned about the responsibility that would one day fall upon him, and yes…where he first fell in love…

Just as Anna had said…it was a ghost town.

Matthew looked all around him, feeling his breath catch in his throat and his chest tighten, as he took in the damage, the debris, the destruction that had once been Downton Village. Shop windows were broken, houses looked ransacked, doors were hanging off their hinges, and the ground was littered with various forms of trash. Cars were overturned, sign posts were falling down, and a stale, dead scent filled the air. _So this is what the world looks like, after an apocalypse…_

"Careful!" Anna hissed.

"I am being careful," Thomas muttered.

Matthew turned at the sound of Bates' painful groan. They had arrived in the village but a few minutes ago. Thomas took two wooden fence posts and broke them off to use as a splint for Bates' broken leg. The poor man was suffering from delirium brought on by his pain. Anna was trying to be strong and soothing, but it was obvious she was ready to snap if something more couldn't be done. In the meantime, William had gone inside a nearby Chemist's, hoping to find something that could be used to help Bates.

"We need a doctor," Anna moaned.

"Well you don't have one!" Thomas snapped. "I'm trying to do the best that I can!"

Matthew's brow furrowed at this. "What about Dr. Clarkson? Surely he—"

"He's missing, sir," Thomas muttered, ignoring Bates' painful gasps as he tied the splint to the valet's leg. "No one's seen him since it all happened."

Matthew gaped at the sergeant's statement. "What? What does that even mean?"

Thomas looked up from his work and met Matthew's gaze. "It means what I said," he explained, a hint of annoyance in his voice, but Matthew chose to ignore it. "Just like Mrs. Crawley, no one has seen Dr. Clarkson in months."

Matthew frowned. "You mean…you mean he left Downton at the same time as my mother?"

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know; don't think so, but…when the village fell, he wasn't around, so…it's possible."

Matthew glared back at Thomas, not caring for the cryptic answers. "What about the hospital? Surely there's someone—"

"Beggin' your pardon, _sir_," Thomas interrupted, fixing Matthew with a dark gaze. "But you haven't been around here for…well, since this all began. There's no one. No one left! Just the lot of us who are up at the house, and that's it!"

Matthew stared at Thomas with wide eyes and a pale face. While they had told him stories about what had become of Downton Abbey and the village over the past twenty-four hours…it was still hard to accept…until you saw it for yourself. And even then…he didn't want to believe it was true.

He looked to Anna, hoping that she would tell him that Thomas was wrong, that there were others, somewhere. Others like Reggie and Lavinia, who kept to themselves in that small brick bungalow. Had they knocked on all the doors? Downton Village was small compared to Ripon or Malton, but…surely, there had to be…something?

Anna looked down, not able to hold his gaze…because what Thomas had said…was true.

And just like that…an entire town was wiped from the face of the earth.

"I…f-f-forgive me…" he stammered, feeling the need to walk, to just…clear his head a little.

"Capt. Crawley—"

"I won't go far, Anna, I promise," Matthew murmured. "I…I just…" he turned and began walking again, not bothering to finish his sentence, not bothering to look back and tell them where he was going. Where was he going? Foolish question…because his feet knew before his mind realized that within a few minutes…he was standing outside Crawley House.

_Home_.

It was funny, in a way. Once upon a time, he didn't think he could stand living in this place. He didn't think he would ever think of the village as home, or Downton Abbey as his future. In the beginning he even prayed that it wouldn't be so. But now…as he gazed at its brick walls, broken windows, and cluttered garden…his eyes clouded with tears. His home had been taken; his world had been taken. Nothing, not even this simple house…was the same anymore.

With a heavy heart and an emotional lump in his throat, he swallowed and opened the dilapidated gate that led to the house.

The door was barely hanging on its hinges.

He opened it, gently, and peered inside the shadowed darkness…gasping at the stench that filled his nostrils.

Something had rotted in here—or died.

A chill ran down his spine at the thought. _Mother was gone; they told me she had left long before anything had happened in the village._ But where had she gone? And why did she leave so suddenly without warning? Why didn't she say anything to anyone? And what did Thomas mean about Dr. Clarkson just…vanishing? Had the two of them, his mother and Dr. Clarkson, gone up to York? Had they believed these so-called rumors Anna and told him about, that there was some sort of…strong-hold there?

He removed a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his nose as he stepped further inside.

The place was a mess. Furniture was overturned, muddy footprints were strewn across the carpets, and broken glass and china littered the floor. He noticed a few old pictures, ones that he and his mother had brought from Manchester, lay broken on the floor as well. He sighed as he bent down and picked one up, one that had been taken just before he left for France, in his uniform. He was a different man then, a man who had no idea of the world he would be coming back to.

Something crunched behind him.

After what had happened at the farmhouse, Matthew's caution was on red-alert. He whirled around, his pistol drawn, ready to fire—

The figure stopped where she was standing.

She stood in a far doorway, the one that led downstairs to the kitchens, at the other end of the dining room. He couldn't see her face, it was cloaked in the shadows of the darkened house, but she stood frozen, breathing deeply, her eyes locked on him.

Matthew gasped as realization suddenly flooded him. Oh God…was it possible?

"Mrs. Bird?" he whispered, joy and relief filling his heart. The dear cook and housekeeper who both he and his mother had come to regard as family—she was here! She was alive! "Oh thank God!" he gasped, lowering his pistol and stepping around the debris of the dining room, trying to come to where she stood, wanting to embrace her, wanting to ask her what had happened, how she had survived, where his mother may have gone—

He stopped.

She wasn't moving. But her breathing had increased.

"Mrs. Bird?"

She shuffled a little…her steps slow…as if she were dragging a great weight behind her. He opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong…but his own breath was robbed from him as he heard her groan…and as he watched her step forward, a bit of sun falling across her face…

…Her _dead_ face.

"No…"

Matthew stared in horror as the dear woman who in some respects, he had come to see as a beloved auntie over the years, stepped closer into the little bit of light that was fighting its way through the shuttered windows.

Her eyes were glazed over with that look that one only saw on Walkers. Her skin was an ashen gray color. There were bruises and blisters on her cheeks. Bite marks on her shoulders and neck. She dragged her left foot…which looked as if it had been broken, but had never fully healed.

She was one of them. She was a Walker.

"No…no, no, no…" Matthew practically sobbed. Not this, not someone he knew! Someone he cared for!

She groaned again and tried to come closer to him, but he was already backing away, backing back to the entry hall where he had been standing when he first heard her.

He gave a yell when two arms came around him and tried to grab him tightly. His instincts told him to fight, and fight he did, jabbing his elbow hard on the attacker. The trick had worked, and the one who had grabbed him groaned and stumbled backward onto the floor. Matthew turned to see who the attacker was…and gasped as he recognized that face too.

"Molesley…?"

Molesley groaned and rolled around on the floor for a few seconds, like a beetle that had fallen on its back. A sickened sob escaped Matthew's throat as he met the man's eyes…which were also clouded over like Mrs. Bird's.

Walkers. They were _both_ Walkers.

"No…God, please, not this!"

Molesley groaned and tried to straighten himself up, his hands reaching out, wanting to grab him, his mouth hanging open hungrily. Mrs. Bird continued her slow advance, also groaning, her arms outstretched, her own mouth moaning in hunger.

Matthew withdrew his pistol and held it up at the two of them…but his eyes were filling with tears as he stared at their faces. They were a strange combination of familiar…and unknown. There was still so much about them that resembled these two people who he cared for very much…but they weren't the two people he knew. They weren't alive, not anymore. They were shells of those people…and he should put them out of their misery!

But his hand was trembling…and he couldn't find it in his heart to pull the trigger.

Both Molesley and Mrs. Bird were closing in on him, and they both had their arms outstretched and their teeth bared, ready to rip him to pieces if he didn't do something soon. This wasn't like the enemy in the War; there was no reasoning with them, they only knew one thing: feed.

"I…I'm sorry…" he gasped, pointing the pistol directly into Molesley's hungry face. "F-f-f-forgive me..."


	10. Homecoming

_Here's my second update for HALLOWEEK (and delivered by Sunday, as promised!) More character drama than zombie kills, but every so often we need that :oP THANK YOU again for all the comments and subscribers! I do hope you are continuing to enjoy this story and the odd world in which our beloved Downton characters find themselves in. As always, PLEASE leave a comment and let me know your thoughts! The action is a little slow right now, but it *will* be building, and there will soon be more opportunity to see some of your favorite characters kick major zombie butt :oP thanks for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Ten_

"**Homecoming"**

A blast came from behind him.

Matthew's hand flew to his right ear, squeezing his eyes shut as a high-pitched whistle filled his head. God it hurt! But his eyes opened instantly and he cried out Molesley's name, as he watched the man who had served as his valet and who had helped him settle into this new life he had found himself in…fall dead to the ground.

Matthew whipped his head around, still clutching his ear and saw William, standing just behind him, his rifle still pointed at where Molesley had been standing.

He wanted to curse the lad for what he had done, but at the same time he knew he should thank him for doing what he obviously hadn't been able to do. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mrs. Bird's hungered groan filled his ears. "BEHIND YOU SIR!" William shouted, before turning his rifle and aiming it at the cook.

"NO!" Matthew shouted, but it was too late. William fired, and with a half-groan, Mrs. Bird fell, landing beside Molesley.

They were gone. _They've been gone for who knows how long, _he found himself thinking_._ _That's not a life_. But as he looked at their unmoving bodies, he felt a sob build up in his throat. Now, they were _truly_ gone.

For a long moment, Matthew stared at them; in all the time he was thinking about Downton, he never once spared a thought to what had become of them. He could argue with himself and say he had naturally assumed they had found refuge at Downton Abbey, but no…the cold, sad truth was, he hadn't thought about them at all…until now.

"Sir?"

William's voice brought him out of his shock, at least for a moment. With a great roar, Matthew turned on the private and grabbed him about the collar of his shirt, thrusting the startled lad against a nearby wall and shaking him. "DAMN YOU!" he shouted, shaking him even harder. And then…he broke down, that sob that had been welled up in his throat finally burst, and he released William's collar, and sunk down to his knees, weeping over the fallen cook and valet...weeping over his friends.

How long he knelt there like that…he didn't know. It must have been a while though, because he eventually heard a pair of footsteps running down the street to where the house lay. "What happened?" cried Sgt. Barrow's voice. A brief pause of silence, and Matthew heard William softly begin to explain.

"God almighty!" Thomas swore. "Did you see any others?"

_Walkers_; Matthew didn't need to be told to what Thomas was referring to.

"No…" William murmured.

Matthew did his best to wipe his face clean. He had no proper handkerchief, so the backs of his hands would have to do.

"Best be getting a move on, then," Thomas muttered. "No sense staying—"

"We bury them first."

Matthew rose to his feet and turned around to face both William and Thomas, whose faces looked absolutely gob-smacked at what he had just suggested. No, it wasn't a suggestion, it was a firm statement. "We bury them…here, before we go any further."

William and Thomas exchanged an uneasy look. William tried to speak first. "Sir…I…I don't know—"

"Well I do," Matthew muttered. "And I will not leave them to…to rot here," he spat bitterly. "Now…make yourself useful and help me find some shovels."

Thomas stepped forward then, trying no doubt in his mind to be the voice of reason. "What Pvt. Mason is trying to say is…there may be other Walkers about—"

"You're right, there jolly well may!" Matthew interrupted, his eyes dark and furious with grief. "But these are not just some _random_ Walkers…these are _people we know!_ Or…or at least I knew…" he looked down once more at the unmoving bodies. "And they deserve a proper burial…or as close to a proper burial as I can give them. So if you want to get back to Downton before the sun sets, I suggest you help Pvt. Mason find a shovel and join me in burying them!"

Matthew didn't bother to see if they understood him or if they were exchanging nervous glances. He didn't care. He turned his back on the pair of them and with a painful heart, went into the house, past the bodies, and removed a soiled tablecloth that was still hanging on the dining room table. With gentle care, he placed the cloth on top of Molesley and Mrs. Bird, then went in search of his own shovel.

He had lost track with how many of these things he had killed since being taken under Reggie's wing. It pained him to sometimes have to do it, but he had managed to numb himself and look at the creatures as…just that, _creatures_. Not human. But today was the first day he had to face the horrible truth that these things _were_ human once, and that humanity was felt so much more when they were people you knew. And even though he had tried to tell himself over and over that it would have been far crueler to let them live in such a state…he still hadn't been able to pull the trigger.

God help him if he had to do that again with someone he knew. He honestly wasn't sure if he could.

* * *

The tea cup trembled in her hand. This was not the first time one of those shivers swept through her. Still, she tried her best to ignore it and swallow the tea in her mouth, even though it seemed to have gone cold all of a sudden.

"You seem awfully quiet my dear?"

The cup came down on its saucer a little harsher than she had intended. "Oh, I was just thinking," she murmured, putting on a smile and turning to face her fiancée.

Sir Richard gave a small smile and came up to her side, placing his hand lightly on her back. She wished the gesture thrilled her; it had, once. Or was that because she tried so hard to convince herself after suffering from a broken heart?

"Thinking about Haxby?" he asked, with a slight wiggle of his eyebrows.

Haxby. Haxby Park, the grand estate that had been home to their dear neighbors, the Russell's, a place where she had gone many times as a child to play. The poor family lost their home due to the many financial crises that many a wealthy land-owning family had come to face during the War. Sir Richard however didn't see tragedy, he saw opportunity. And had talked with her about what a grand house it would be for the two of them to call home. And she, even though she at first thought perhaps the idea of taking such a house and making it her own was ghoulish…she had been beginning to come around to his way of thinking. After all, she had long since accepted the fact that Downton would never be hers. Why couldn't Haxby be her own "Downton"?

_Because there is only one Downton._

She frowned as that meddlesome voice once again filled her head. "One can always dream," she found herself murmuring, although was it to Sir Richard…or herself?

"Have no fear, my love," Sir Richard murmured. "This will all go away, and life will return to normal once again."

Mary frowned at his confidence. "How can you be sure?"

"Because change is inevitable," he declared with a confident nod.

Mary turned away from the window she had been gazing at and faced him, her frown still not disappearing. "If that is true, then what is the point of thinking that things will 'go back to normal'?"

"Well, they won't go back to how they always were, that is true," he sighed, before taking one of her hands in his. "But…_this_ can't last forever. And a day will come when all this…ends."

_All this ends._ Did he mean the hell that the world had fallen into? Or…the imaginary safe-haven that they seemed to have created for themselves?

"Do you think we'll even be of an age to enjoy a place like Haxby Park?" Mary murmured, turning her gaze once more towards the window. "Or that there will even be enough people to run such a place?"

She could see Sir Richard's reflection in the window, and she could tell that he was trying very hard to keep a positive smile on his face, even though she could read his true emotions in his eyes. "People will need jobs when this is all done," he stated firmly. "And a place like Haxby Park will be like a beacon to them."

She decided to keep her thoughts to herself. No use in starting an argument. As much as she wanted to believe that life for them would go on as normal when everything had settled, she was coming to realize that there were so many other elements at play. It wasn't just their realm of Downton, but all of Britain, indeed, all of the world! They were merely a single domino…

Maybe her sister was right in accepting these changes? Even though Sybil's opinion was unpopular with a majority of them, maybe she was onto something?

Sybil…

Mary frowned as she looked at the window. "Oh gracious, will she ever learn?" she hissed as she saw her sister, once again, down on all fours tending to those graves. She had just been attacked! How could she be so foolish? And where was Carson?

Sir Richard looked outside and sensed her worry. "It's alright, that new chauffeur your father hired is with her."

Mary followed his gaze and indeed, caught sight of the man to whom he had been referencing. She hadn't had a chance yet to speak to the chauffeur; in all honesty she was rather surprised when her father announced last night that he had hired Sybil's rescuer. But she chose to say nothing further, believing her father knew what he was doing. And yet…for some reason, she felt an uneasy chill run down her spine as she gazed at him, also kneeling on all fours, only a few inches away from her sister.

_Far too close, he's far too close to her_, Mary silently chastised. She couldn't hear them, of course, but…he must have said something amusing, because Sybil nearly toppled over in a fit of laughter! Oh really, Sybil, show some decorum! The chauffeur—Branson, if Mary remembered correctly, joined in her laughter, and then tried to help her sister up, and for the briefest moment, Mary watched with narrowed eyes as the young man took her baby sister's hand.

No, not just any young man, a _handsome_ young man. A handsome young man they knew nothing about.

"She should be inside," Mary muttered.

Sir Richard frowned. "She's in perfectly good hands—"

"I know," Mary muttered, turning on her heel and leaving the room. "Which is exactly what I'm afraid of."

* * *

It was meant to be a solemn task, and it usually was. Yet for some reason, Sybil found herself smiling and giggling more than usual in…goodness, a very, very long time!

Mr. Branson—well, just Branson, she supposed, since now he "worked" for her father—had asked her why she was bothering with holding onto all the dandelions that she had been weeding. She then went on to inform him that a book she had found in her father's library mentioned that dandelions were edible, and could be used to make a rather scrumptious salad (with a few other ingredients, of course). Branson stared at her with wide-eyes, but it wasn't a look that shouted, _"You're mad!"_ but one of…admiration? Surprise? Impressiveness? It didn't matter really; all those looks caused her to blush. But if truth be told, she found that she rather liked "impressing" him.

She murmured her musings about what Mrs. Patmore would think of her idea about making a dandelion salad. She then wondered if any of her family would touch the thing if it were made. "I would, milady," Branson had told her, causing her blush to darken more. "I would happily eat any salad you created."

She laughed and shook her head. "Best be careful, Branson, you haven't tasted my cooking."

He chuckled and then to try and show off, took one of the dandelions from her basket and popped it into his mouth. Sybil paused and stared at him, watching his face as he chewed on the weed…and then burst out laughing as his expression soured and his eyes began to tear up, before he grimaced and reluctantly swallowed the little yellow plant. "Good God, that's…that's an acquired taste," he muttered, trying to keep his conversation polite.

To this, Sybil's laughter got the better of her, and she more or less toppled over in a rather unladylike fashion, falling onto her side and clutching her stomach as she giggled. Branson smiled back at her, and then his voice was soon joining hers in the hilarious moment.

It had been so long since she had felt this sort of merriment. In all honesty, it had been so long since she had felt this sort of…connection, with another person! Gwen had been such a dear friend, and even though she was a housemaid, Sybil never saw her as a person "beneath" her. If truth be told, she sometimes saw Gwen as a dearer sister than her own sisters! And when she died…Sybil had never mourned the loss of another person the way she mourned that of her best friend.

Truly…after Gwen's death, Sybil felt as if she didn't have any friends left, and for all she knew, that _was_ true. Besides, none of her other friends were as close to her as Gwen was; she and Gwen would talk about their dreams for a life beyond the one they were given. Gwen wanted to be a secretary and leave service. Sybil…well, she wasn't quite sure what her future had in store for her, but she didn't want her life's ambition to _just be_ marriage. In 1916, she was inspired to become a nurse, and she thought that was her solution—be a nurse, not just during the War, but after it too! She could get a job at a hospital in London, and she and Gwen could be flat-mates together! They would go forth and conquer the world as independent women, forging the futures they wanted.

The laughter and merriment Sybil had been feeling began to die at these memories. Poor Gwen…she didn't deserve to…to…

"Milady?" she looked up, and realized that Branson was offering her a hand to help her up. His eyes were still shining with amusement…but his expression began to change as he no doubt noticed the melancholy that had fallen upon her. "Are you alright?"

She forced a smile and nodded her head. "Yes, sorry, I…" she really didn't know what to say. So instead, she shook her head as if clearing it, and gave him a genuine smile, before taking his offered hand. In one gentle, easy tug, he had her hoisted back up onto knees, nearly knocking right into him! "OH!" she gasped, her hands coming out to brace herself and keep from hitting him…but instead, caused her palms to be _pressed_ _against his chest._

Another gasp escaped her throat, and Sybil looked up at him, her eyes wide and a deeper, hotter blush inflamed her face. Good gracious! She could feel his _muscles_ beneath her fingers, and she swallowed a nervous lump in her throat as a shiver ran through her body at the feel of those muscles, flexing just slightly. "I…I…" good Lord, she was actually tongue-tied! Branson was staring back at her, his own face darkening, and another shiver rippled through her body…as she felt his own fingers flex ever so carefully against her arms. She suddenly realized that just as her palms had come up to brace herself against his chest, his hands had reached out to steady her, by grasping her upper arms. _He's practically holding me! _Oh Lord, was it possible for her face to be any redder? _DO SOMETHING! _

"SYBIL!"

Mary's shrill bark startled them both so much that not only did she and Branson release one another, but they both even stumbled backwards.

Sybil quickly scrambled to her feet, and began wiping her hands on her apron, blushing furiously out of embarrassment and from the memory of how close she had just been with the handsome Irishman. _Oh stop it! You never gave a fig about such things before!_ She brushed some sweaty strands of hair out of her face and looked up at her sister…and for a brief moment, was reminded of a time when they were small children, and Mary had caught her in the nursery, playing with her sister's brand new china doll. _But we're not children anymore, and I refuse to be made to feel guilty! I wasn't doing anything wrong!_

She lifted her chin in a rather haughty manner, imitating her sister. "Mary?" she replied in a cool tone.

Mary rolled her eyes, and despite the annoyed look, Sybil had to bite her lip to keep from giggling.

"I thought that after your most recent 'adventure', you would know better than to come outside," her sister muttered.

The giggle that she had been trying to suppress quickly disappeared. "Am I to remain a prisoner now?"

Mary frowned. "Oh, I beg your pardon; silly me, I thought we were _protecting_ you!"

Now Sybil was frowning at Mary's sarcasm. "I think I proved myself the other night that not only can I protect others, but I can also protect myself!"

"Oh yes, of course, I forgot," Mary's sarcasm continued. "Oh, wait…no, if I remember correctly, you were nearly killed by that monster had not the chauffeur appeared and saved you!"

Sybil's face burned, but it was not for pleasant reasons. She hated it when her family did this to her and made her feel small and helpless, but she especially hated it now, in front of Branson.

"And you!" Mary's voice turned to the very man who had risen to his feet just behind Sybil. "Aren't you supposed to be in the garage, working on something?"

"Mary!" Sybil hissed, feeling even more embarrassed now for Branson. Let her sister insult her, but leave him out of it! And she couldn't stand the condescending tone she used; really, what was the point in all this "master/servant" nonsense? Weren't they all under the same roof and trapped in the same situation?

Even though her back was to him, Sybil could easily imagine Branson stiffening at her sister's words. "Actually, I was going to be begin my search for my brother," he replied, and Sybil couldn't help but wince at the rather abrupt coldness that now filled his voice. One would never think that only a few minutes ago, they were losing themselves to laughter. "But when I came outside, I offered to help Lady Sybil, and to keep watch, at least until her task was completed."

Mary lifted an eyebrow at this. "Is _that_ what you were doing?"

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Mary, I am in no danger! While I know I can fend for myself, Branson was here in case—"

"Why didn't you say anything to Carson?" Mary interrupted.

Sybil blinked at her sister for a few seconds, before finally speaking. "I…he was busy, with Papa, and…I didn't want to drag him outside—"

"Oh for heaven's sake Sybil, why is it so difficult for you to obey _one_ rule?"

"Because I'm NOT a child!" she found herself practically shouting. "And it's a foolish rule!"

Mary clucked her tongue. "You think your safety is foolish?"

"Oh stop it, you know what I meant!" she groaned. "I'm tired of having to be looked after; I'm tired of having to depend on someone else! I REFUSE to let someone else fight my battles when I SHOULD AT THE VERY LEAST BE FIGHTING BESIDE THEM!"

She was breathing quite heavily, and Mary was staring at her wide eyes and a pale face. Sybil hadn't realized till then that hot, angry tears were dripping down her cheeks. She made a quick effort to wipe them away with the back of her hand; she hated crying in front of others.

"Is…everything all right?"

Sybil did her best to stifle her groan as Sir Richard now entered the fray, coming up behind Mary and putting what she supposed was meant to be a comforting and supportive hand on her sister's shoulder.

"Yes, quite," Mary murmured under her breath. "I think it's best if we all come inside—Branson, thank you for your help. Now, if you have no other duties, then by all means, good luck with your search. Come, Sybil."

And just like that…her sister, not even a countess, had dismissed both Branson, as well as everything she had just said.

No…no, Mary could not do that! She refused to be spoken to in such a way! And certainly not because Sir Richard had suddenly arrived! So Mary was allowed to avoid embarrassment in front of her own fiancée, while _she_ was to be ridiculed in front of Branson? Who…granted, she still barely knew, but…no, no, Mary could not do this, it could not be THAT cut and dry because she deemed it so!

Sybil opened her mouth to protest the matter just as Mary was taking Sir Richard's arm to go back into the house—but she stopped herself…and stared with wide eyes…as something…in the distance…was moving down the road.

Branson had noticed it too, because he had come up next to her, gripping the rifle tightly, but keeping his fixed on…

A car.

God almighty…_a car!_

"Mary…"

Mary turned at Sybil's voice, looking confused and then frowning even more as she took in the look on her sister's face. "Sybil? What is it? What's wrong?"

Sybil could barely speak, so she simply pointed towards the road. Sir Richard turned first, and then Mary…and a gasp escaped her throat just as it had escaped Sybil's.

"What the devil…?" Sir Richard muttered.

Sybil stepped closer, and grasped Mary's arm. "Who…?" she was trying to ask her sister who she thought it could be. They hadn't seen any other survivors in well over a month, except for Branson of course. Sybil gasped and turned to look at him. "Your brother?"

"No…" he murmured, but his hold on the rifle didn't lessen, in fact, it seemed to tighten. "No…Kieran had a truck…nothing fancy looking like that."

Sybil frowned, and then squinted her eyes as the car drew closer and closer. Then, a loud gasp filled the air as she was able to recognize one of the passengers. "That's Thomas!"

"What?" Mary turned, gripping her hand.

Sybil grinned! "Yes, and William! I see them! And…and I see Anna too!"

"Anna?" Mary gasped, her grip only tightening. "Is…is Bates the one driving the car?"

Sybil frowned at this. "No…I…I don't think so…I don't even see Bates."

She felt Mary's grip tighten even harder, and she understood why. They were all aware of the romance between the head housemaid and their father's valet, and while such relationships were often viewed as inappropriate or perhaps even "forbidden" between members of staff, that was at least one thing Sybil and her sister seemed to agree upon—in the midst of this hellish world, let the two of them be happy with one another.

"No, it's not anyone I've ever seen…" Sir Richard murmured.

They continued watching as the car drew closer…and closer…

_Blonde hair…_

She recognized that hair.

_No…it…it couldn't be…_

But it was.

A great gasp escaped her throat and her hand flew to her mouth. Mary turned and looked at her with sudden alarm. "What? What is it?"

Sybil turned and stared at her sister…as a smile slowly began to grow across her face. "It's Matthew…"

* * *

She was frozen.

No…surely…surely she hadn't heard correctly.

Matthew was dead. He had died in that hospital, so many months ago, due to the injuries he had received in battle. William had told them all this. He had been there and witnessed it!

So…that couldn't be Matthew…

…Could it?

"Sybil!" Her cry had fallen on death ears, because her sister had wriggled her hand free from her grasp and was running towards the approaching car, throwing off her gardening bonnet and laughing as she waved her hands overhead in greeting.

"What on earth…?" Sir Richard mumbled, looking even more confused than before.

"Milady?" She turned and gasped at the sight of the chauffeur, gripping the rifle and looking for the order to begin firing at the intruders. _But they aren't intruders; yes, that is Thomas, and William, and Anna, and…and…_

Great God in heaven…

Despite being a practical stranger to her, Mary found herself gripping Branson's arm to keep her knees from buckling as she stared, wild-eyed, as the approaching car came to a sudden stop, and the driver leapt out and enfolded her sister in a great hug.

Was it her imagination? Or did the muscles in Branson's arm suddenly go tense?

"Who _is_ that?" Sir Richard hissed in her ear, and Mary quickly released Branson and turned back to her fiancée.

"I…I…" she was at an utter loss. She had never told Sir Richard about Matthew—other than the fact that he was her cousin, and the presumed heir to Downton Abbey and the earldom. She certainly hadn't told him about the years before the War, before she and Sir Richard began courting; she hadn't told him that once upon a time, she considered marrying Matthew—that she loved him.

_Loved? As in…past-tense?_

Sybil was grinning madly, and she ran back to Mary, before throwing her arms around her and nearly toppling her over with her exuberance. "Oh Mary, isn't it wonderful?" she grinned. "He's alive! HE'S ALIVE!"

What could she say? _Yes, it is wonderful! It's a miracle! I can't believe it, I'm so happy! _ There were things she wanted to say…and things she didn't dare say.

"Oh I must go inside and tell Papa!" Sybil gasped, turning and running into the house, not bothering to wait for a word or reaction from her sister. Mary stared after her retreating figure, before turning her attention back to the figure, the one who had just been embracing Sybil…and her throat suddenly went dry as she met his eyes from across the road.

Oh gracious…he…he hadn't changed. He still looked just as handsome as she remembered.

"My dear, what on earth is going on?" Sir Richard hissed in her ear. "What was your sister babbling about? _WHO_ is that?"

She was torn between turning her head to Sir Richard and answering his questions—and keeping her eyes locked on Matthew, for fear that if she looked away or even blinked…he would disappear.

"MATTHEW?"

She practically jumped out of her skin at the sudden shout by her father. He came barreling out of the house, Sybil close behind, grinning madly as she had been before. Matthew turned towards Lord Grantham and smiled, and Mary watched as her father didn't stop running until he suddenly had Matthew seized in his arms, like the father embracing the biblical prodigal son. More noise came from the door, and Mary watched as Edith and her mother exited the house, gasping and smiling at the sight. Right behind them were Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and O'Brien, although while they looked startled at the sight of seeing Matthew, they turned their attentions towards the servants who were still lingering around the car Matthew had driven.

"So…Mr. Crawley is alive, then?"

She looked up at Sir Richard, who was arching an eyebrow at her in question. Despite the arched brow…she couldn't really read his face; was he…upset?

"Oh my dear boy, my dear, dear boy!" her father managed to say between enthusiastic hugs.

"I can't believe it…" her mother gasped, coming over and embracing Matthew as well. Mary was surprised by this; after she had told her mother that she and Matthew were no more, her mother had reassured her that she was "entirely on her side", and would be polite to Matthew should she ever find herself in his company, but other than that, she would be cold and aloof. Well, they had thought him dead until now—perhaps she could forgive her mother this oversight?

…Could she forgive _her own_ oversights? She honestly didn't know. She didn't know what she felt right now because she was feeling too many things: joy, shock, amazement, disbelief, confusion, and…yes, even a little sorrow and anger. She was also feeling frustration; she wanted to do what the rest of them were doing, to rush over to his side and embrace him tightly. But…at the same time, she was well aware of Sir Richard—her _fiancée_—standing close to her side, and clutching her arm to him.

"Good God, Bates!"

Her father's booming voice caught her attention once more, and suddenly everyone turned their heads towards the car, now paying attention to a figure lying in the back, who seemed to be strewn across Anna's lap.

Mary managed to release herself from Sir Richard's rather tight…and possessive grip, and make her way to the car, her heart racing for Anna, who looked grateful to be back, but on the verge of panicking. "What happened?" she gasped, taking in the sight of her father's valet, whose leg she noticed was splinted.

"He broke it," Anna managed to say, even though it was clear she had been fighting back tears and other raw emotions. "Thomas…Thomas did what he could."

A snort came from behind her, but Mary chose to ignore the former footman. "We must get him inside," she announced. "Sybil can have a look then. Carson? Branson?"

Carson was there immediately, looking aghast at the sight of poor Bates. Branson, even though he clearly had no idea who any of these people were, did come to assist.

"Best take him to a room that doesn't require a great deal of stairs," Mary ordered. "Besides, I think he's earned a grander bed. Take him to the blue room."

"Yes, milady," Carson murmured obediently, before taking one of Bates' arms and putting it around his shoulder. Branson did the same with the other arm, and soon both men were helping poor Bates inside, who was groaning miserably in pain.

Poor Anna looked sick with worry. "It will be alright," Mary tried to reassure her. If there was one thing she had learned from the women who had come before her, it was that a calm demeanor kept a calm house. And with all the madness going on in the world around them, they needed a calm house more than anything.

"Thank you, milady," Anna sniffed, before reaching out and squeezing one of her hands. A gesture like this, especially when initiated from a servant was simply not done…but this was a different world in which they lived, and it was Anna. She returned the squeeze.

"Sybil?" Sybil nodded her head and quickly followed Anna inside, her exuberance over Matthew's sudden, miraculous return, changing now to that of professional nurse. Edith followed Sybil, and Mrs. Hughes went to greet William, giving him a welcoming embrace, although from what Mary could see, William looked uneasy. They soon went inside too, while Thomas and O'Brien greeted one another coolly. "Thomas, best you go inside too and assist Sybil if she needs it."

Was it her imagination? Or…did Thomas make a face at her order? However, he didn't try argue with her, her simply muttered a "yes, milady", before moving inside, with O'Brien close at his heels.

Now all who remained were her parents, Sir Richard…and Matthew. And herself, of course.

"Come inside, come inside," her father continued, never really losing a grip on Matthew, his hand still holding her cousin's shoulder quite firmly.

"Are you hungry?" her mother asked. "I'll notify Mrs. Patmore; she'll have something special made—"

"Thank you, both of you," he finally murmured. "I…I think what I really need is just…a good chair to sit in." He caught her gaze again, and Mary felt her cheeks warm.

"Of course!" her mother replied. "Robert, take him to the library; I'll go talk to Mrs. Hughes about preparing Matthew a room."

"Thank you, Cousin Cora," he murmured, as well as offering a thankful smile to her father. He kept glancing her way, and Mary couldn't deny that a part of her longed for her father to go inside after her mother, to offer her and Matthew this one, brief moment alone, where she could truly…adjust…to this revelation that the man whom she had been mourning for so long (much longer than when she thought he had died) was…back, once more.

"Oh gracious, Mama!" her father gasped. "I should go and tell her at once!" And just like that, he turned to go inside—although she was sure, before he disappeared through the door, that he looked her way and gave her what one would call a "knowing smile". It only caused the heat in her cheeks to increase.

They were alone now; standing there, on the steps of Downton Abbey…staring at one another, unsure how to behave or what to say.

"Well, perhaps I should introduce myself?"

She closed her eyes and fought back the groan. No, they were not alone, of course.

Matthew's gaze shifted then to the man standing beside her…and who was once again holding her arm at his side.

"Sir Richard Carlisle," he introduced, offering his hand to Matthew to shake. "Lady Mary's fiancée."

Matthew had just taken Sir Richard's hand, but just when they were about to shake, Mary noticed how Matthew seemed to tense at this bit of news. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on her part? _She_ certainly tensed when Sir Richard murmured that word. However, he forced a smile and once again, resumed shaking Sir Richard's hand. "Matthew Crawley," he replied. "Lady Mary's cousin…" and then, after a brief pause, quickly added, "and Lord Robert's heir."

Was it her imagination? Or did Sir Richard's eyes narrow suddenly?

"Well…" Sir Richard whispered. "Indeed, this is a…happy day."

Was it? She knew the answer her heart had to that question, but she had spent so many months—no, years, really—in telling her heart to move forward and stop imagining such a day. And right now, she honestly didn't know how to behave or respond. Everything seemed so complicated, so much more than before.

"Come inside," she whispered, smiling up at Matthew, but curling her hand around Sir Richard's offered arm. "We'll find you that chair you requested, and bring you some tea. And then…when you're ready, you can tell us your story."

Yes, she wanted to hear more about that. And she prayed he would be ready to share it much sooner, rather than later.


	11. Questions

_Here it is! The latest chapter, just in time for Halloween! Although I confess it lacks some of the "zombie action" from the previous chapters; it's mainly a character-building chapter, but more fights with zombies are on their way, more moments to see characters kicking butt and being awesome, just hang tight!_

_THANK YOU for the comments and follows! I hope you've enjoyed this "Hallo-week" of updates. I will try to get another chapter up by Sunday, so stay tuned!_

_ONE LAST THING...I want to dedicate this chapter to all those out there who are living in areas affected by Hurricane/Superstorm Sandy. Thoughts and prayers are with you, and I hope you and your loved ones are safe._

* * *

_Chapter Eleven_

"**Questions"**

She remembered how she insisted that she was going with him. They had argued in the past, but that argument was like a summer breeze, compared to the raging hail storm they were having now. He told her it was too dangerous; she countered that if it were, then why was it alright for him to risk his life? She argued that she knew how to shoot, that he had taught her well, and that she wasn't afraid of those things, that what truly frightened her was the thought of never seeing him again. If they were going to die, then by God, it was going to be on her terms, with the two of them fighting side by side. Nothing he said would have convinced her otherwise…and so, with reluctance (only because she knew he was worried for her) he admitted defeat, and it was announced the next day that Anna would be joining their small search party.

She was glad she had gone. She would have been worried sick otherwise, and doubted she would have been much use to Mrs. Hughes or anyone else. No, she had decided, many years ago, that her place was beside Mr. Bates, no matter what. And so, here she stood, once again by his side, while Lady Sybil examined his leg.

"Thomas did a very good job in bracing his leg," she murmured, which brought a small smile to Anna's lips. She glanced up from where she stood to see the former footman standing in the doorway, the expression on his face mimicking that of a child muttering, _"I told you so"._ "Yes, I think the bone will heal nicely, so long as we keep the brace fixed and tight…"

Anna nibbled her lip. "But…is there anything we can do for the pain?" He continued to groan, and his face was covered in perspiration. It had been agony for him during the car ride, and while she had prayed that by the time they reached Downton and he was lying in a bed that things would be better...he still looked just as pained as he had then.

Sybil looked up and sighed. "If this were the hospital and we still had some, I would offer him morphine. But…probably best to take some spirits. I'm sure Papa wouldn't mind offering his finest brandy." Anna tried to smile at Lady Sybil's words, but she found it difficult. She always found it difficult to smile when John was troubled. She still remembered all the troubles that his first wife had caused for them…

"I'll come back and check on him after supper," Sybil murmured. Anna smiled and gave a polite curtsey, thanking her softly under her breath. "He'll be alright, Anna, he just needs rest," Sybil reassured, before reaching out and giving the housemaid a quick hug. "I'm so glad you're all back," she whispered, before releasing her and leaving the room.

Thomas gave a small smile to Lady Sybil as she left, however his usual "cat caught the mouse" face returned once it was just the three of them in the room again. Anna wasn't sure what that expression was for; did he expect her to fall to her knees and thank him for the wonderful binding he had done?

"Well, this will put things in a bit of a predicament for his Lordship…" he sighed.

Anna frowned. "What do you mean?"

Thomas dug into one of his pockets and retrieved his carton of cigarettes. "Only that his Lordship has come to depend on Mr. Bates for so much…whether it's as his valet or as his…security," he withdrew one of the cigarettes and placed it between his lips. Anna's frown deepened at the sight. No one was allowed to smoke in the house (save his Lordship of course) but even then, cigars were restricted to the dining room and library.

"Things have changed, Thomas," she muttered under her breath. "We've well gone past those days when you and Miss O'Brien were scheming to toss Mr. Bates out and take his job."

Thomas lifted an eyebrow at this. "Have we?" he murmured. And without another word, he gave a small bow of his head, and left the room.

Honestly…after…after _everything_ they had been through over the past few days—no, even before that! Was that _all_ the vile man thought about?

"Pay…no…heed to him…"

She looked down and quickly took the offered hand of the man she loved, who despite the obvious pain he was feeling, put on a smile for her benefit. "With the amount of times you've saved his skin, he should be thanking—"

"None of that matters," John insisted, gritting his teeth a little, but squeezing her hand affectionately. "You…said so yourself…things have changed…and we need to…move forward too."

Move forward. She wanted to, but it was hard to imagine now. Had it only been a year ago, when they were making plans for their lives after his divorce finally came through? They had talked about becoming innkeepers, running something small but cozy, with a pub or café attached. They would be their own master and mistress, and they would start a family, and they would be happy—so _very_ happy…

That was what they should have been doing. The lives they should have been living. Not…trapped in this grand estate, forced to fight for their lives, never knowing when the nightmare would end.

She looked at John, her Mr. Bates, and returned the squeeze, as well as put on her own smile. This was not the life she wanted them to have, but at least they had each other. And really, that was all that mattered.

* * *

Elsie Hughes credited herself on being a patient woman. One had to be when working beside Charles Carson for all these years. But right now, that patience was thin—extremely thin—as she and the others gathered in the Servant's Hall were desperately yearning to hear the news from the recently returned search party.

"What happened in Ripon? Did you see anything?"

"Why did it take you so long to get back? And where did you find Capt. Crawley?"

"Where did you get the car?"

"Did you at least get us some decent things to eat on your journey?"

Poor William; he was being swamped with questions right, left, and center. He had to bear the brunt of them because, in Elsie's opinion, the two people best to answering them were somewhere upstairs, and no one really wanted to hear Thomas' input, as no doubt it would be nothing but negativity.

"Let the lad catch his breath before you throw another question at him," she attempted to reason on his behalf. The poor boy looked as if he were going to be sick; he was very pale…and he looked…troubled. "William, would you like some tea?"

He looked a little startled by her question, and then quickly shook his head. What on earth was bothering the lad?

"I just don't understand it; you told us last autumn that Capt. Crawley had died!" Elsie did her best to stifle her groan. Despite Mr. Carson's "nod of agreement", when she told them all to give William a moment and cease in bombarding him with questions—clearly that didn't include himself.

William paled even more, if that was possible. "I…I…I was…" he glanced up towards back of the room, where both Thomas and Miss O'Brien were standing. "I…that is…I—"

"What William means to say, Mr. Carson, is that he was mistaken, you see."

Everyone turned their eyes to Thomas, who was smiling like the preverbal cat who caught the canary. Elsie found herself frowning.

"Mistaken?" Mr. Carson sputtered, looking even more confused by this bit of news.

"That's right," Thomas continued, his eyes holding William's surprised gaze. "Capt. Crawley was declared dead by the hospital staff and thus informed William of this bit of false news. Little did they all know that he wasn't, not really dead, I mean. Maybe they thought he had stopped breathing…or couldn't find his pulse…know a lot of men in the medical corp. who sometimes miss something as simple as that…"

Elsie's frown only deepened. "You're not exactly filling me with great confidence about the medical corp., Thomas."

He shrugged his shoulders. "We all make mistakes…don't we, William?"

William's eyes widened, but he quickly began to nod his head. "That's right, that's right…" he whispered. "It was all a mistake…misinformation…"

No doubt more questions would have been asked, however they all came to a pause as Anna suddenly appeared at the Servant's Hall entrance, looking tired, disheveled, but also relieved to be back. Elsie was relieved to have Anna back as well.

"Anna!" Mr. Carson smiled. "Welcome back! Oh, please have a seat!" He rose from his chair and pulled it out for the young woman. She gave him a grateful smile before sinking into the chair, while Mrs. Patmore quickly poured her a cup of tea. The head housemaid lifted her eyes briefly from across the table and met Elsie's relieved gaze. They both exchanged a smile of greeting.

"How is Mr. Bates?" Mr. Carson continued. "What on earth happened to you all out there?"

Once again, the onslaught of questions began to be thrown about, but this time William didn't have to bear them all on his own. And if truth be told, Elsie was convinced they would receive better answers coming from Anna than from the former footman.

Anna gave a weak smile, looking puzzled on where to begin. However, her eyes paused on the man who was standing in the corner, his arms folded across his chest, silently watching and taking in the scene. "Hello?"

"OH!" Elsie gasped, forgetting all about their newest addition to the house. "Anna, this is Mr. Branson—his Lordship's chauffeur."

Thomas' eyebrows went up at this information, but he didn't say a word. Anna also looked surprised by this, but managed to offer a polite smile, as well as exchange her hand towards the chauffeur. Mr. Branson returned her smile, and took her hand, giving it a polite shake, but not lingering too long, due to Mr. Carson's stern gaze. _In all honesty…_

"We're all very curious to hear about what happened," Mr. Carson continued where he had left off. "But first, please…what happened to Mr. Bates?"

And so with a deep breath, Anna began her story, telling them all about how they searched throughout Downton Village, and then went on their way to Ripon, but found nothing. They decided to continue their journey, and search Malton as well, just in case. The sad truth was, Malton was nothing like Ripon…just as Mr. Branson had warned, on the night he had arrived.

"There were Walkers everywhere, and we had to hide-out in an old pawn shop—"

"Walkers?" Mr. Carson murmured with confusion.

Anna nodded her head. "That's what Capt. Crawley calls them. It seemed an appropriate name."

Mrs. Patmore clucked her tongue. "_Demons_ are an appropriate name."

Elsie on the other hand was amazed by a different part of the story. "Good heavens, you were _trapped inside a shop?_ For how long?"

"Two nights," she answered. "Mr. Bates saw the shop, saw the metal fence it had around its windows to keep thieves out, and thought that would be the safest place for us to hide." She then went on, pausing every so often to take sips of tea, about how William had literally ran into Capt. Crawley, how Thomas had seen a car, and the elaborate plan Capt. Crawley had in getting them out of there…which explained Mr. Bates' present situation.

"Heaven help us!" Mrs. Patmore gasped, when Anna had finished her story. "So it's just like you said, Mr. Branson!" All eyes then turned to the new chauffeur, and Elsie suddenly remembered the young man's story, about how he and his brother had gotten separated in the midst of a struggle near a village but a half-day's journey from Downton…a village like Malton.

"We don't know if Malton was the place Mr. Branson was talking about," Mr. Carson grumbled, and Elsie once again found herself rolling her eyes. Honestly, there were times that Mr. Carson was worse than the very people they served, when it came to rose-tinted denial.

"Then that makes it worse!" Mrs. Patmore muttered. "If he wasn't near Malton, then that means there's another place out there that's just like the one Anna described! And the point is that someplace, not too far away from here, there are those things, those…Walkers…a whole army of them from the sound of it…and it will only be a matter of time before they descend upon us!"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson muttered. "You'll frighten Daisy."

Daisy, who had been standing in the back near the entrance to the kitchens, suddenly perked her head up at the sound of her name. "No she won't—"

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Carson…" everyone now lifted their heads to see Ethel, standing nearby, holding the remnants of a tea tray. "But…they're asking if William will come upstairs to the library."

Elsie turned her gaze to the poor footman, who actually reached out and gripped a nearby chair, as if he were trying to keep himself from falling over. She stood then and surprised everyone, including herself, with her statement. "William needs to rest, Ethel. Please convey that message to his Lordship."

Everyone stared at her, eyes widening in disbelief. Mr. Carson suddenly rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving hers. "He has been summoned—"

"Aye," she acknowledged. "But that can all wait for tomorrow. Right now, what our champions need is their rest. So please…Ethel, go and deliver that message. And if there are any questions, please tell his Lordship to come speak to me."

Mr. Carson's jaw dropped, before he quickly shut it. There was a vein in his left temple that Elsie had always noticed; it seemed to throb whenever he was agitated. However, she returned his glare with one of her own; no amount of hot air that Charles Carson sent her way would blow down her resolve. And he knew it. "_I_ will take the message, Ethel," Mr. Carson managed to mutter. "And I suggest to the rest of you to finish preparing dinner." And with that, he was gone.

Elsie quietly groaned to herself. She knew there would be words between the two of them later, but she refused to dwell on that now. Instead, she met William's gaze from across the room, and the lad looked back at her, a thankful smile spreading across his face. While she didn't truly know why his Lordship wished to see William, she had a feeling it was focused around the same question Mr. Carson had been asking, about how William could have been so wrong about Capt. Crawley's condition, when he had informed them all that the poor man was dead. As much as she disliked Thomas, she did think he had a point; in the midst of whatever panic had taken place in London, the doctors and nurses probably did make a mistake, and told William thus. Was that the lad's fault?

She was grateful that Capt. Crawley was alright, truly. She could understand the joy and puzzlement over everyone by this sudden surprise. But like Mrs. Patmore, she too was focused and worried about Anna's revelation—that Malton was crawling with these…Walkers, as Capt. Crawley called them. And then only two nights ago, one was seen on the grounds, for the first time in four weeks. What did that mean for the future? What would that mean for the rest of them? Were they all just sitting ducks, waiting for death to come knocking on the front doors of Downton?

In November, it was declared that the War had ended. But it wasn't really over. Somehow, it had managed to find its own, sickening way, to the fields of Yorkshire. And they may very well be on the precipice, of the end of the world.

* * *

He sat in a large, spacious chair, and his cousin Cora kept asking him if he wanted any more pillows. No matter how many times he shook his head in politeness, she kept asking. Tea was brought in by a housemaid he didn't recognize. The usual pleasantries were made as the tea was poured and passed around the room. It was clear that everyone was desperately waiting for the red-headed housemaid to leave; he was unsure why, but if truth be told, he was enjoying the momentary quiet, before he was bombarded with questions. He wondered if he would have a chance to ask his own? But all thought left his mind as he glanced across the room…and took in the sight of Mary, sitting on a chaise, with that gentleman he had just met standing right behind her…and who would every so often brush his fingers along her shoulder.

Matthew's jaw clenched each time he observed the gesture.

"Thank you, Ethel," Cora murmured, after the last of the tea had been passed around. "You may go; we'll ring you if we need anything else."

Ethel gave a small curtsey, and made her leave. The second the door had closed, the bombardment began.

"Good heavens, how is this possible? We thought you were dead!"

"Where did you come from? How long have you been looking for us?"

"Where did you find Bates the rest of them?"

"What happened to Bates? Where did you get that car?"

Matthew's head was pounding, and he hadn't even spoken a word.

"All right, all right, everyone, please!" Robert's voice boomed over all the others. "Let the boy answer when he's good and ready…"

Cora nodded her head. "At the very least let him sip his tea."

Matthew gave them both a smile of thanks, but he knew they were just as eager to hear what he had to say. He took one quick sip and then set his cup down. He doubted he would get much of a chance to drink it after he began.

"I…I woke up, only a little over a week ago…in London…" and thus his story began. He was met with wide eyes and slack jaws as he told his story, starting from the beginning. He told them about the hospital, about waking up all alone. He looked across the room, and noticed how both Sybil and Edith were staring at him in shock and horror at the thought. He wanted to look at Mary, but had a feeling if he did, he would no doubt catch Sir Richard stroking her shoulder once more, and he feared he wouldn't be able to continue. So he barreled on, talking about how he was nearly attacked, but saved by two people—once again, as he hadn't revealed Reggie and Lavinia's names to Bates and the others, so too did he not reveal them now to his cousins. More gasps were heard as he told them about learning how to fight the Walkers, being given the car and driving all the way to the abandoned farm house before being attacked and knocked unconscious, and then running into William and the others while wandering through Malton. Robert and Cora looked at one another in shock as they took in his words about the attack he and the others endured while there.

"How horrible…" Cora whispered. "Malton…I…I was so sure that…that it couldn't be possible—"

"Yes, well, I'm afraid it is," Cousin Violet sighed from her chair in the corner. "It shouldn't be too much of a surprise, considering how that one pesky creature managed to get into the gardens and attack Sybil."

Matthew's eyes widened at this. "Good God, Sybil are you alright?"

Sybil waved her hand as if she were waving away a fly. "I'm fine; truly, I had everything under control—"

"Yes, the best left unsaid on that matter, the better," Robert muttered, giving his youngest a look of warning. Sybil simply rolled her eyes.

Matthew had forgotten what these…'family get-togethers' were like, at Downton.

"I beg your pardon, Cora, but…it seems that the loss of Malton is the lesser of two evils in Mr. Crawley's story."

Everyone turned their gaze to Sir Richard, and Matthew couldn't help but bristle just slightly with how…familiar…he spoke his cousin's name. _As if he's already her son-in-law…_

"I'm stunned to hear that…that _London_ has fallen, by what you say."

Bates had asked that same question the other night. Indeed, the loss of London was a great blow, although he wouldn't dismiss Malton as easily as Sir Richard seemed to. Loss of any kind was devastating.

"But…surely it can't be that bad…" Edith said, trying to find something to be positive about. "I mean, Cousin Matthew was there all this time…there must be some people, some institutions working—"

"If there are, then they are underground and in hiding," Matthew sighed. "I wasn't even in the heart of the city, but…no, Edith, I'm sorry…I was lucky, but the city _is_ gone."

A silence fell over the room as this piece of news settled upon them all. Matthew wished he could offer some words of hope, some words of assurance that everything was going to be alright, that the world would eventually go back to how it was before all this started. But he knew deep down that would be an outright lie.

Cousin Violet was the first to finally break the silence. "Well, I suppose all those financial troubles we were once fretting over can be brushed aside."

"Mama, please!" Robert groaned.

Violet lifted her shoulders and looked about the room. "Well in times like these, it's always best to look for a bright side."

A collective groan went up around the room.

"I must say Mr. Crawley—"

"Capt. Crawley," Robert corrected.

Sir Richard nodded his head in apology. "I beg your pardon—_Capt_. Crawley," he continued. "I must say…it is…shall we say, short of a miracle, that you _did_ survive, considering what had become of London."

"Yes," Robert nodded his head in agreement. "Very strange; William told us that you were dead—he had been in London when…when the outbreak began, and quickly returned, telling us you had died in the hospital—"

"A mistake, clearly," Cora interrupted. "No doubt caused by panic that was going on around the city."

"That may be, but it doesn't explain—"

"Does it really matter?"

Everyone turned then to Mary, who finally broke the silence. Matthew felt his breath quicken as he turned and looked at her.

"I mean, really…does it matter, Papa? The point is…Matthew is _alive_. He's alive, he's fine, and he made it back here, safe and sound. And all of them are back—Anna, Bates, William, and Thomas. Yes, Bates was injured, poor man, but…we're losing focus. This should be a time of celebration, not questions."

"Here, here!" Sybil replied, smiling at her sister. Mary blushed, and looked down at her teacup. Matthew felt his heart lift at her words, and wished she would look at him, but just as he had been avoiding her gaze earlier, so now was she.

"Well said, my dear," Sir Richard murmured. "But…as joyous as it is that your cousin and the servants have returned, it does mean we have to now consider the best plan of action."

"Plan of action?" Matthew asked.

Sir Richard smiled. "Why of course. I'm surprised, Capt. Crawley—you being a 'military man', I would think this would seem obvious." Matthew frowned at this. In the short time he had met Sir Richard Carlisle, he had found little to say that was positive. "The whole point of that search party was to go and see if there were any survivors…or…'Walkers', as Capt. Crawley calls them, that were still close to Downton. Well, sadly we know there are no survivors…save for that chauffeur—"

"Branson," Sybil quickly corrected, ignoring the frown from her sister.

"The point is…while Ripon and the village may be safe, what do we do about Malton? Or the possibility that they may come here?"

This was one thing Matthew found himself nodding in agreement with Sir Richard. While Downton wasn't a "populated" place, that didn't mean that the Walkers wouldn't eventually wander towards them. And even though he could tell that Sir Richard's remarks had been made as a way to mock him, the man was right; they _did_ need a plan of action.

"Mary is right," Robert sighed, rising from his chair and walking to Matthew's side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Tonight, let us just celebrate the return of our own 'prodigal'; we can discuss all these 'action plans' at another point, when the ladies aren't present."

An irritated huff was heard from where Sybil stood. Matthew winced a little at Robert's lack of sensitivity. Sybil wasn't the only one who seemed to take umbrage at his words. Indeed, even Mary and Edith looked a little put out by what he had said, perhaps even Cousin Violet—although Matthew was never quite sure what she was thinking under that haughty expression.

"I would still like to hear William's explanation, though," Robert muttered to his wife, while everyone else began muttering their thoughts on what to do about this news of Malton, possibly being overrun by Walkers. "He convinced all of us that Matthew was dead! Ask Ethel to fetch him for me," he murmured to Cora.

Cora didn't seem thrilled at the idea. "Must we, Robert? Can't that wait until tomorrow?"

Matthew had overheard the conversation and immediately began to frown. "I'm sure it was all a mistake. There's no need—"

But Robert was already rising from his chair and ringing the bell. Matthew sighed and gave a small shake of his head. After so many months of commanding officers and giving orders, he had forgotten, in some ways, what it was like to once again find himself in a place where someone else gave the final order.

"Papa can be a bit autocratic at times…"

He looked up and immediately rose to his feet at the sight of Mary, standing and smiling in front of him. A small blush colored her cheeks, and Matthew found himself smiling back at her, feeling that familiar warmth wash over him whenever he recalled Mary's smile throughout the years. "I just have to remind myself that…I'm still new to this," he sighed, his hand gesturing to the world beyond the library's windows. "After so many months of lying in a coma…to wake up and discover what's happened…"

Mary's expression changed to one of sympathetic concern. "I can't imagine what that must have been like."

Matthew shook his head. "Sometimes I can't either, even though it _did_ happen to me. Sometimes I think I must be dreaming—trapped in some mad nightmare. I keep waiting to wake up, _wanting_ to wake up."

Mary took a small step closer, her eyes looking deeply into his. "And…now? Do you still wish that?"

Matthew felt his throat go dry. How should he answer her? Tell her the truth? That for years, even before he joined the army and went off to battle, he was wishing it were all some terrible nightmare? That the day he walked away from her at that garden party hadn't happened, that he would wake up and find himself happily married, with her lying next to him? As much as he wished he could say that, he didn't dare…especially as her fiancée approached.

"It will be good to have you here, Mr. Crawley—I beg your pardon, _Capt._ Crawley," Sir Richard apologized, still wearing that polite smile, one that Matthew had seen so many times throughout his years a solicitor. It was the sort of smile a man wore when addressing those he either thought beneath him, or felt he _had_ to be civil to, for propriety's sake. There was nothing genuine about such a smile.

"Please, Sir Richard…" Matthew put on his own polite smile. "Call me Matthew."

Sir Richard's smile broadened, and he gave a slight bow of his head. "Well, as I was saying, it's good to have you here. Never hurts to have another gun around the house…or another gentleman to protect the ladies."

"Careful…" Mary murmured under her breath. "Sybil might hear you."

Matthew straightened his shoulders. "Do any of you…meaning you and your sisters…do any of you shoot?"

Mary lifted her brows. "I assume you're not referring to birds?"

"No," Sir Richard replied before Mary could continue. "Lord Grantham does not wish to expose the ladies to…such violent scenes."

_Load of poppycock_, was what Matthew wanted to say. After those two days with Anna, and seeing how she had been able to handle a gun, he wouldn't dare say that she was "unable" to handle the violence. He had a feeling that if it meant saving Bates' life, Anna would go storming into a crowd of Walkers, firing every which way. Of course, Anna had told him that she had to convince Bates to teach her; maybe that was the difference? There was some small sense of freedom for the servants; he doubted anyone would look down their nose at the idea of a housemaid knowing how to shoot and fight a Walker, but for the women above stairs, like Mary…apparently it was "unheard of" and even possibly, "forbidden".

Well, that would be something he would have to address with Cousin Robert when they next spoke.

Matthew's eyes widened as a sudden memory stirred. He couldn't believe that he had forgotten, and felt ashamed that he had. "My mother…" he murmured, turning his attention back to Mary. "Anna told me that…that no one has seen her since…since before—"

Mary's eyes said enough. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it because she had nothing to tell that he hadn't already heard. Once again, he felt his hope shatter. What could have happened to his mother? And Dr. Clarkson for that matter? And then the memory of what had occurred prior to when he arrived at Downton resurfaced…

"I…there may be Walkers in the village…"

All the other chatter that was going on in the library suddenly ceased at these words. "What?" Robert gasped, coming closer to Matthew's side. "What do you mean? I thought you said that before you came upon them, Bates and the others had already searched—"

"On the way back," Matthew murmured. "We stopped in the village before returning to the house…to see if we could do something for Bates' leg," he explained. "I…I wanted to see the house…" he could tell by the understanding looks on their faces that they knew he wasn't talking about the big house. "I…I went there…and…and it was a complete mess, but…but there…" he paused and took a deep breath, feeling his emotions rise once again. "Molesley and Mrs. Bird…" he whispered.

"Oh no!" Edith gasped. "Oh dear, how horrible to see."

Matthew gave a small, thankful smile to Edith for her sympathy, but he doubted she understood. "It's not what you think," he whispered. "They…they _weren't_ dead, at least…_not completely."_

"Oh Lord in heaven…" Violet murmured, her hand flying to her throat at this news. "Molesley…poor Molesley."

Matthew nodded his head, and a collected gasp went around the room. He felt two hands envelope one of his, and he looked down at the sight of Mary's fingers clutching his own. "I'm so sorry…" she whispered, and he saw the reflection of tears, brimming in her eyes. He squeezed her hand, thankful for the kind sentiment, and the kind gesture.

"What did you do?" Edith asked.

Mary shot her a harsh glare. "Don't ask such stupid, unfeeling questions!" she snapped.

Cora put up a hand between both her daughters, a sign that now was not the time to throw jabs at one another.

Matthew shook his head, once again feeling ashamed of himself. "I…_I_ didn't do anything," he whispered. "If William hadn't arrived when he did…I probably would be dead."

Another murmur went up around the room, various voices trying to offer him some form of comfort in some manner, but they were all just one jumbled mess of sound in his head.

"I…I insisted on burying them, which we did, in the front garden of Crawley House."

"Good," Cousin Violet whispered, rising from her chair and coming over to Matthew for the first time since he had arrived. He knew she was fond of Molesley, and had done everything in her power to keep him safe during the War. He had a feeling that next to himself, she would feel his loss the most. "We shall eat in their honor and memory tonight."

He smiled and gave a small nod of thanks, although the idea of food right now was not the most comforting thought. The truth was there was only one thing he wanted to do: find his mother. Or at the very least, he wanted to know that she was safe. Perhaps she had said something to Cousin Violet? It just seemed so unlike her to leave so abruptly without saying anything to anyone, without leaving a hint of any kind. Something must have happened…something must have driven her away, but what? He was desperate to learn the answer…and at the same time, he was terrified of what he would learn.

* * *

Sarah O'Brien knew she would find him out here. It was second nature, really. If she didn't see Thomas in the Servant's Hall, then there was only one place he would be. She stepped outside, lighting her own cigarette, and smiled at his back, watching him exhale a long stream of smoke from his mouth and nostrils. She had missed having him around.

"So, who's the Irish rogue?"

Sarah came up to his side and exhaled her own stream of smoke. "Arrived two nights ago; just happened to 'be nearby' when Lady Edith and Lady Sybil were attacked. Saved Lady Sybil's life—I didn't see it, but I heard about it plenty from her Ladyship."

Thomas flicked some ash from his cigarette. "So no doubt they're falling all over themselves for him."

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "Time will tell. Don't know what to make of him yet. It's clear he's not fond of being here. According to what he says, he got separated from his brother, about a half-day's journey from here. Know anything about that?"

She watched Thomas' face closely as he shook his head. Sometimes he liked to keep things from her, and it irritated her immensely.

"Anyway, he's only staying until he finds his brother, at least that's what he keeps reminding all of us," she muttered, flicking her own ash from her cigarette.

Thomas now shrugged his shoulders. "It'll be nice to have a handsome face to see across the table, 'stead of that old codger, bumbling William, and his Lordship's boot-licker."

Sarah couldn't help but grin at that. "Best be careful; Ethel's got her eyes on him, too."

"She's got her eyes on anything that moves," he muttered, and now Sarah found herself chuckling. However that sobered up quickly as she turned the questions towards him. "So…that was a bit of a surprise, you returning with Capt. Crawley…"

Thomas turned and looked at her, exhaling smoke. "It was a surprise for me, too."

She took a long drag on her cigarette. "What do you think this will mean?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure; could be good, could be bad."

She narrowed her eyes and frowned. "Let's make it good for us, and let the bad fall on someone else."

"Already working on it," he explained, a wicked smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "Noticed anything interesting about young William tonight?"

Sarah nodded her head. "Certainly found your sudden defense of him interesting when Mr. Carson started questioning him. But now that you mention it, the lad did look rather pale."

He nodded his head. "Turns out that William wasn't such a good little soldier to Capt. Crawley."

Sarah lifted her eyebrows with interest. "So you mean, he wasn't _informed_ that Capt. Crawley had died…he just said that to all of us?" Thomas' smile only spread further. Sarah couldn't help but grin back as well. "Oh, that is interesting."

"Indeed," he murmured, taking another long drag. "William left the good captain there, lying helpless in his coma, to save his own skin, thinking there was nothing to be done. Capt. Crawley doesn't even suspect anything, he believes what the rest of them believe, that some doctor or nurse made a mistake and misinformed him."

"But we know the truth," she finished. "And I'm sure you made it quite clear to William that we do?"

"He knows that I know," he conceded. "And he practically begged me to not say anything."

"Which of course you agreed upon," she added. "After taking out some insurance."

"He promised he'll do anything I ask, whenever I ask him," he summed up, flicking more ash form his fingers.

"That was thoughtful of him," Sarah murmured. "And could come in handy down the road…"

Thomas grinned again. "Indeed."

A moment of silence passed between the two of them. "Shame what happened to Mr. Bates," she finally whispered after a while.

Thomas nodded his head. "He's no good to his Lordship in that state; even worse than before." He took one last drag from his cigarette, before throwing it down on the ground and stomping it with his boot. "His Lordship may find himself forced to put someone else in charge; Carson can't do it all on his own."

Sarah nodded her own head in agreement. "True…but you misunderstand me, Thomas," she sighed, turning and looking up at her partner in crime. "When I said it was a shame, I wasn't being sarcastic."

Thomas frowned, looking confused by her words.

"What happened to Mr. Bates is a shame…it's a shame that his accident couldn't have been more…_permanent_." And with that, she flicked the butt of her cigarette from her fingers, before turning and going back inside the house. She believed it was wise, to remind Thomas every once in a while, just how ruthless she could be.


	12. Routine

_Happy Sunday! As promised, I will always try to have a chapter for Downton Abbey & Zombies posted on Sundays, so here is the latest! Another "non-zombie action" chapter, but have no fear, IT IS coming. But a little more character development and tone-setting for the future. Also, there's a great deal of BROTP in this chapter (you know who you are that are looking for it) ;o)_

_THANKS AGAIN for the lovely comments and feedback and follows to this story! I'm glad so many are enjoying it and looking forward to reading it! I want to dedicate this chapter to an amazing author, **Piperholmes**, who I know is still feeling a blue, like the rest of us Sybil/Tom shippers, but who told me she finds comfort in AU's like this, so Piperholmes, I hope you enjoy, and continue to find strength in these stories...be they with or without zombies :oP_

* * *

_Chapter Twelve_

"**Routine"**

Discipline. Order. Tradition.

These were the three things that Charles Carson upheld above all others as butler of Downton Abbey. He had served the Crawley family before the present Earl of Grantham was the present earl. When the fifth earl had been alive, Charles began his career at Downton as a "mere" footman; within two years, he was elevated to the status of first footman, a position he proudly served for another five years, until he became the then earl's valet. Five more years passed, and then before the then earl took to what would ultimately become his deathbed, he was promoted to the position Charles had always been hoping to achieve, and knew with enough discipline and hard work, he would reach: butler. Butler…of Downton Abbey.

He had come a long way from his days as a stage performer. He had been serving as butler for well over thirty years, and God willing, he hoped to continue serving for another thirty. He had sacrificed a great deal to reach this position: he had cut ties with all those he knew from his past, including his so-called "friends" in "show-business", and he had put away any desires for what some would refer to as "normal life". While he didn't forbid the romance that had blossomed between Mr. Bates and the head housemaid, at the same time he didn't understand it. Mr. Bates he could easily see one day following in his footsteps, and becoming a butler to such a house as this…perhaps _even to_ Downton. If truth be told, Charles had been giving some serious thought of handing in his notice to his Lordship, and following Lady Mary to Haxby Park or wherever she decided to "lay down her hat", so to speak. If he did this, he would highly recommend Mr. Bates to be the man to take his position, if his Lordship willed it. Bates seemed like a much more logical choice than Thomas. But Mr. Bates seemed to have other plans; it was clear he and Anna loved one another very much, and it was rumored that they had discussed the possibility of one day "leaving service" so that they could start a family. Yes, this made sense, as it was near impossible for a servant to serve properly when they had children running around at their ankles (their own children of course, not those of the people they serve).

However…all those plans had been set aside…when the world fell into madness.

Now, his strict rules for running a grand house had changed. He still held fast to the rules, but now the focus wasn't so much on keeping Downton a cut above other grand houses…but just keeping Downton and its people, alive.

Before the Convalescent Home collapsed, before the villagers came to seek refuge behind Downton's sturdy walls, and before the mass exodus took place where the people began their pilgrimage northward, he and his Lordship had sat down, and discussed what should happen, if the danger ever came to Downton. And the plan they had created seemed very simple, but very effective…or so he believed.

Thanks to the experience of his Lordship, Mr. Bates, William, and yes, even Thomas…the staff was taught how to handle a gun, and how to protect the ladies. While he hadn't originally approved of the idea of letting the women on staff learn how to shoot, his Lordship eventually convinced him that it was probably for the best to allow _some_ of them, to learn. After all, such people like Miss O'Brien, who tended to her Ladyship day in and day out, should probably know a thing or two. And Anna, well, she insisted. Others had insisted too, others who…were not there anymore. Charles sighed as another sad memory of Miss Dawson's sacrifice resurfaced.

There was one person, however, whom he had probably fought with far more than any other, when it came to the subject of teaching women how to shoot, and surprisingly, it wasn't Lady Sybil.

He was in the butler's pantry, going over the routine for the day, when that very person knocked at his door. "I heard that you asked for me, Mr. Carson?"

He glanced up and fought the initial instinct to smile at the sight of her, his old "comrade in arms", so to speak. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes, I was curious how Mr. Branson is doing."

Mrs. Hughes looked a little confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's just that it seems that the two of you are getting along quite well…" he began, wanting to be careful with how he phrased things. "And…well, perhaps you are the one who can best tell me what's going on with him?"

She lifted an eyebrow at this. "Are you asking me to spy on Mr. Branson for you?"

"Spy?" he sputtered. "I…no, of course not! I…I simply meant that…is he behaving himself? I mean, he hasn't tried anything with one of the maids?"

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. No one else would dare do that in front him, not even his Lordship, but not Elsie Hughes—the woman didn't know fear. "I think you should rephrase that question; 'have any of the maids tried anything _with him_?'"

He paled slightly at this, before turning a bright red, but Mrs. Hughes began laughing at the sight. "I'm glad my concern amuses you," he muttered, looking down at his desk and trying to straighten out the already impeccable stack of lists he had set down.

"Oh really, Mr. Carson; you're too harsh on the lad!" she sighed with a slight tsk of her tongue.

"He's a stranger; we know nothing about him—"

"You haven't allowed yourself to get to know him," she muttered. "He seems like a good lad as far as I can tell. He keeps to himself, mostly; does his job in repairing his Lordship's cars, and when he has the chance, spends the rest of his time searching for that brother of his."

Charles frowned a little at this. "Do you think that's true? That he really has some…brother…that's out there? I mean, don't you think it was rather odd, that at night, he happened upon us, just when that…that…"

"Walker," Mrs. Hughes provided, knowing he was still struggling with the new word that Capt. Crawley had introduced to them all.

"What I mean is, how do we know he's not some opportunist, ready to do something vile to us just when we lower our defenses—"

"Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Hughes admonished. "Would just listen to yourself? You're worse than one of Lady Edith's gothic novels!" He sputtered at this, but had no quick retort. "The lad has been here for three days; for three days he's done what we've asked, which if you ask me, is a great deal since he's not even getting paid to maintain and repair those motors! And all he wants is to find his brother; that's it! He hasn't tried to cross either of us, and no, he hasn't tried to sneak into anyone's bedroom; I keep the door on the maid's quarters good and locked, as you well know." He did know. Elsie Hughes was like a she-wolf, protecting her charges.

"Let the lad be, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes sighed after a moment's silence. "At least take my word for that; after the few conversations I've had with him, he strikes me as very sincere and seems to have a good heart. Just let him be…he'll be out of your hair soon."

Charles didn't say anything, even though it was tempting to add _"not soon enough",_ but he held his tongue. He could tell that Mrs. Hughes was rather fond of the Irishman, for some mad reason.

So instead, he did the only thing he could to avoid any further argument. He changed the subject. "And how is Capt. Crawley fairing?"

Mrs. Hughes lifted an eyebrow at these words. "Well, how would you be fairing Mr. Carson if you woke up in a world like this, and then was forced to shoot two people you deeply cared about, and have no idea what's become of your mother?"

Charles was taken aback by her words. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't quite make any sounds, which (according to Mrs. Hughes) was a rare thing for him.

"I don't think you need to worry too much, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes continued. "He won't get in the way of your precious Lady Mary's engagement."

Now Charles found himself bristling. While he could tolerate her bizarre liking of the new chauffeur, he would not put up with her…or anyone for that matter…speaking ill of Lady Mary.

"I would think you would show some sympathy to Lady Mary, Mrs. Hughes! Need I remind you that it was Capt. Crawley who broke her heart!"

Mrs. Hughes made a bit of a face. "She broke her own heart, Mr. Carson. She had ample time to accept his proposal before the garden party."

He jutted his chin forward, his jaw clenching at her words.

"And since when did you become a supporter of Sir Richard Carlisle?" she challenged, folding her arms across her chest and fixing him with a heavy stare. He hated it when she looked at him like that; she was a very perceptive woman.

"I admit, I was wary of Sir Richard when I first met him…but he has been true to Lady Mary, and to this family, ever since he arrived and when all this chaos began. And now that the very man who broke her heart is back, well…how can I not be a supporter of Sir Richard Carlisle?"

To his surprise, Mrs. Hughes began to chuckle. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that and felt his chin jutting just a little further at the sound.

"Oh Mr. Carson…listen to us," she sighed. "Why do we keep going on and on about such things, when we live a world like this?" she sighed again, but the humor she had shown earlier had quickly faded, and it was replaced, once again, by a look that Charles did not care to see in her eyes. A look that reflected despair and hopelessness. "I sometimes find myself wondering…what's the point anymore…"

"Order, Mrs. Hughes, order and discipline and tradition. I said it during the War, and I continue to say that now. Our traditions and the strict routine that we keep here at Downton Abbey; that is how we _will_ come out of all this. That is how we _will_ defeat the evil that thrives beyond these walls and _survive_ this whole affair."

He had hoped that perhaps his words would inspire her; at the very least, he had hoped that perhaps they would bring something resembling a smile to her lips. But she only sighed again, before turning towards the door she had entered not so long ago. "I best go and speak with her Ladyship about what she wants to do about dinner…not that it matters anymore," and with that…she left his pantry.

Charles' brow furrowed as he watched her go. This wasn't the first time Mrs. Hughes had displayed such emotions. He thought things were getting better, and he remembered how hopeful she seemed when Mr. Bates and his search party departed to inspect the village and surrounding villages. Yet now, after their return, she seemed to be slipping back into that negative routine; and that was a routine he most certainly did not want to keep.

* * *

Things were different now.

And despite how much he pontificated the importance of accepting "progress" in the past, the truth was he despised change. Or rather, he despised changes that he had no control of.

As a newspaperman—a _very successful_ newspaperman, Sir Richard Carlisle was used to having things go his way. He was used to getting the scoop over his competitors—and if any of the reporters who worked for him failed in doing so, then he fired them without a second thought. He was used to having whatever money could buy; he never understood the word "impossible" because when one had money, _nothing_ was impossible. And when it came to women…well, he was used to having his way in that area, too. However, Lady Mary Crawley wasn't the sort of woman a man simply tried to lure to his bed for a single-night's pleasure (unless one was a randy foreigner). No, she was the sort of woman a man with good sense and a keen eye for the future, married. And Sir Richard always believed he had the best sense.

Of course he had been disappointed to learn the truth, that she was more or less "damaged goods". However, he wasn't going to let something as silly as a missing hymen stop him from taking her as his wife. The connections which her title and family name brought would do him a great service. Just as Lady Grantham had been a "blessed relief" when she brought her American fortune to her marriage, so too would the Crawley's see him—a blessed relief, a savior, if you will; because his fortune was bound to only grow larger and larger. And his dealings in the realm of business was sure to keep any scandal the house of Downton found itself falling prey to, out of the papers. This meant…_he_ had the true power. They needed him, plain and simple. And with an earl for a father-in-law, this would open a new door for him, a door into the realm of government that he hadn't had access to, other than that of press releases. Yes…everything was going perfectly; everything was going his way.

And then the world fell apart.

But despite this new found horror, he remained with the Crawley's; remained and continued to metaphorically kiss the earl's ring of power, setting the stage perfectly for when the time came and Robert needed someone else to take the helm. Because despite the stoic face in the midst of madness, it was clear Robert was losing his grip on the control of Downton Abbey. And it wasn't just because he had one rebellious daughter who insisted on more or less being treated "like a man" (thank God Mary would never be like her!) but he could see everything beginning to "fall at apart" at the edges. There were only so many servants, and he had overheard whispered conversations when people thought they were alone, about how ridiculous it was that they were still going on and on as if _nothing_ had changed (granted, they no longer had six-courses at dinner, but there was still the ringing of the dressing gong, and still the assumption that one would dress for dinner). This was made ever more obvious when Robert "hired" the chauffeur, a man who was not so blind and who clearly pointed out that he wasn't being paid…and probably figured that he never would be.

Servants like the butler, the housekeeper, and Robert's valet, they stayed because they were "loyal"; but what was to keep the others, like the chauffeur? What loyalties did they have? It was only a matter of time before this delicate balance of power and order tipped…and Robert lost all control.

Originally his plan was to step in when this began to take place. Now he was beginning to think he would have to do so _before_ that happened. Because he wasn't the only one who had a "claim to the throne", so to speak; not anymore. He wasn't the only one who saw the bizarre irony in this pretense to carry on things as "they once were".

No…now he had Matthew Crawley to deal with.

He knew enough about Mr. Crawley before he met the man. He knew he was some middle class solicitor from Manchester who more or less discovered overnight, that he was the heir to Downton Abbey and the earldom. He knew that the man had come to Downton, prior to the War, to learn about this thing he would one day inherit, and he knew that when war broke out, he "nobly" enlisted and left for France before the year was over. These were the things he had been told…but there were things he knew that members of the Crawley family, including his lovely fiancée, had failed to mention. He would be a poor newspaperman if he didn't do his own investigating…

He knew that Mary and Mr. Crawley had a…_past_, so to speak. He knew this just as he knew about his fiancée's "traumatizing" experience at the hands of a Turkish diplomat. He knew that Mr. Crawley had proposed to Lady Mary, and he knew that she hadn't given him an answer, which eventually led to the two parting on "ill terms". But…what he hadn't known, or at least hadn't been prepared for…was how deeply his fiancée _still_ cared for Matthew Crawley.

He was staying at Downton, when the younger footman had returned from London, blubbering about Mr. Crawley's demise. Everyone was shocked, but Mary wore the coldest, numbest expression out of the bunch. She then excused herself, and while the rest comforted one another at this news, he left the room and spied on her from a darkened passage…watching her weep, like the rest of them. That was when he realized that Lady Mary Crawley still carried a torch for the now dead heir.

But Mr. Crawley was _dead!_ And he was convinced that he could defeat a ghost in winning Lady Mary's affections. But now…that ghost had returned. And Sir Richard didn't like it for one bit.

Matthew Crawley's presence was bad on many levels. Not only could it cause problems between himself and Mary, but it would also cause problems between himself and Robert. Because Robert didn't bother hiding the fact that he was "delighted" by Matthew's sudden return.

"But perhaps…that's something I can use to my advantage?"

He smiled to himself, as he looked outside his window and watched the resurrected Capt. Crawley walk up and down the gravel drive, looking every which way as if he were trying to see if there more of those "things", ready to pop out. _Oh if only…_

But yes, perhaps he could use the relationship between Robert and Matthew to his advantage? It had been apparent last night that Capt. Crawley was…astounded, in some ways, to how things were being run.

After that emotional time in the library, the dressing gong sounded, and everyone turned to return to their rooms. Mr. Crawley looked utterly confused by the whole event. Robert said something about not worrying about dressing, they were just so grateful to have him back that it didn't matter. However, Sir Richard wondered how long that would be allowed, as all the rest came downstairs, the ladies in their finery, he and Lord Grantham in tails; and Mr. Crawley sticking out like a sore thumb and obviously feeling just as awkward as he looked.

Yes…it was clear the good captain didn't understand Downton's ways. And while he knew that Robert dearly cared for, if not loved, his cousin and future heir…Sir Richard also knew that Robert dearly loved Downton. And if push came to shove…he suspected Downton would win in the end. Or at least that would be how he would try to manipulate the situation.

And despite whatever past feelings were once reciprocated between Mr. Crawely and Lady Mary, Sir Richard had a feeling that just like her father…Lady Mary Crawley also held a special place for Downton in her heart. After all, if there wasn't this whole "entail" business, she would be the one to inherit the estate. And he knew, very well, that this still was a "sore subject" with his fiancée. Perhaps he could manipulate that to his advantage as well?

The truth was he had worked too long and too hard to get to this point. He didn't just survive this whole…apocalypse…to fail now. If London was truly gone, and there was no hope for the banks or government to lift themselves out of the ashes and for things to return to how they once were…then by God, he was going to have Lady Mary Crawley at the very least! Because Sir Richard Carlisle was used to winning. And that was definitely one change, he would not accept.

* * *

He thought he had seen everything, when he had awoken in that hospital.

The destruction of London, the Walkers who threatened him, his rescue from Reggie and Lavinia, learning how to fight and kill the creatures, and then returning to Yorkshire…and facing the nightmare of watching two people he cared for die, after trying to attack and eat him. He thought he had seen all the horrors and encountered all the bizarre possibilities this new post-War world could offer.

But not so.

Because while he had not been prepared to see Molesley or Mrs. Bird as Walkers, or to learn that his mother had been missing long before the destruction of the world had taken place, or to once again stand in front of his beloved Mary, and watch as another man touched her in a way that told him "she's mine"…he had not even begun to fathom that a dressing gong would sound…and everyone would come to dinner as if it were just another evening at Downton Abbey.

It would be so much easier to digest, if all of them believed that nothing had happened. If he stumbled upon that scene, of Mary and her family dressed to the nines, and then they all looking at him, in absolute shock, as he informed them about monsters roaming the grounds, monsters that only want to feed off your flesh…well, perhaps then he could swallow the sight.

But they _did_ know what was happening. Carson carried a rifle on his person! Bates had taught Anna to shoot, and she and William and Thomas had accompanied Bates on a mission to see if the villages surrounding Downton were safe! And then he heard Sybil's story about how she had nearly killed a Walker with a tree branch of all things, but that the "new chauffeur" had been the one to finish the deed. _New chauffeur? _ Good God, where would he be driving them to? And how was Robert in a position where he could "hire" staff? No, they were very much aware of the world they were now living in; at least they were very much aware of this world beyond Downton's walls. But inside…there was still tea and luncheon, Cousin Cora still had her breakfast in bed, while the rest ate in the dining room "as per normal", and then last night, the sight of everyone dressing for dinner…it was too much.

It was one thing to be in denial, but…this was beyond denial, this was lunacy!

At breakfast, Matthew tried to speak with Robert about these things, tried to gently broach the subject about…what the plan of action was?

But Robert mumbled something about how dearly he missed having a newspaper. And then something about missing sausages, and Matthew knew, at least at this moment, it was a lost cause.

He found he had no appetite as he watched Sir Richard Carlisle enter the room, and throughout the breakfast, he kept finding some excuse to brush his fingers on Mary's shoulder…or her arm…or to take her hand…

_She's not mine, she never was. We…fancied ourselves in love once, but that was years ago and she made it quite clear to me that she didn't love me, at least not enough to marry me when I first asked her, so…just stop this possessive jealous anger every time you see that man!_ However, he also found himself wondering if it was absolutely necessary for Carlisle to "flaunt" his own possessiveness about Mary like that. Surely Robert didn't approve? Surely Mary didn't approve! But she didn't seem bothered to say anything about it during the meal.

He excused himself and began a walk through the house, trying to once again familiarize himself with the place. He remembered the tours both Robert and Mary had given him back before the War, when he was trying to imagine himself as the future earl and Downton as his home. Eventually, his journey took him to the room where Bates was resting. Anna, of course, was in there, sponging a cool cloth on the man's face.

"Capt. Crawley!" Bates mumbled through slightly gritted teeth, trying to sit up.

"Oh please, please, don't," Matthew smiled, reaching forward and taking the valet's hand in a firm shake. "You've earned the right to lie down and rest." He looked at Anna, who also smiled, but he could see that she seemed…uneasy about something. "How are you feeling?"

Despite the pain Matthew could see on the man's face, Bates put on a smile. "It's a little better today…although that's probably because I'm getting used to it," he confessed, with a bit of a chuckle.

Matthew glanced up at Anna, but she turned away before his eyes could meet hers.

"Well…I'm sure Nurse Crawley is doing everything in her power to help," he murmured, trying to be positive. "And I must say, this is a lovely room they have for you; perhaps the loveliest room in the house—"

"Oh I don't care about that," Bates muttered through gritted teeth. "I mean, please…don't get me wrong…I am grateful for all that his Lordship has done…but…" he tried to adjust his position, but couldn't quite do it without causing himself a great deal of pain. "…All…all I care about is…getting back on my feet again…"

Matthew nodded his head. "Well, with the proper rest, hopefully that shouldn't be too long."

Bates forced a smile, and Matthew returned it. He caught Anna's gaze then, and could see a look of trepidation in their depths. Suddenly, he felt the need to leave, and so with a few parting words, he turned and left. He hadn't gone but a few feet, before Anna quickly followed.

"Capt. Crawley…" she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was near, as well as making sure her voice was low enough that Bates wouldn't be able to hear. "I'm worried about him…"

Matthew's brow furrowed. "Have you discussed this with Sybil? She would know best, I would think—"

"It's not that, Capt. Crawley, it's…" she paused and took a deep breath. It was clear she was at her "wit's end". "Mr. Bates—John—he's in a great deal of pain. He puts on a face to show how brave he is, but…Lady Sybil, she said that brandy would help, but…it only numbs the pain for a moment…and…and I don't like giving him spirits until his speech is slurred, and I don't think it's helping with this fever he's developing—"

"Fever?"

Anna nodded her head. "He's burning up. Lady Sybil took notice of it this morning and gave me instructions to keep his head cool and have him drink a great deal of water, which means he can't drink the brandy, but…" she paused again and Matthew could see the concerned tears in her eyes. "Something needs to be done, Capt. Crawley…I just don't know what, but _something_ needs to be done!"

Matthew mutely nodded his head, gave Anna the best reassuring and hopeful smile he could, before leaving her to continue her vigilant care for Bates, while he continued his…journey. That's what it was becoming, anyway; a journey of thought.

His journey continued until he found himself outdoors. He still carried the pistol Reggie had given him, the pistol that had been left behind by whoever had originally taken the car and all the weapons in its boot. He doubted he would ever let that pistol go. He walked up and down the gravel drive, grateful for the fresh air, but at the same time, watching the woods and gardens around him, trying to see if he could tell there was any "unnatural" movement, to be seen through the trees. It was strange…he felt like he was being watched.

A loud bang came from just ahead, and Matthew practically jumped out of his skin at the noise. It wasn't a gunshot blast, but it was enough to make any wary man reach for his gun. He calmed when he realized that the sound had come from the garage…and he even found himself chuckling at the string of curses and colorful expletives that were being uttered by what could only be described as, a very irate Irishman.

"Fecking piece of SHITE!" the new chauffeur was muttering, throwing a wrench down and coughing as smog from the engine he had been leaning over billowed the air around him.

"Everything alright?" Matthew asked as he approached the garage.

The chauffeur looked up, nearly banging his head on the bonnet lid to one of Robert's cars. He muttered another curse, before turning and giving Matthew an irritated glare. "Does it LOOK alright?"

Matthew was momentarily taken aback by the Irishman's brash retort. It been quite a long time since anyone had spoken to him like that; certainly none of the men who served in his unit would have spoken to him in such a way. But then again, this wasn't the British Army…and even though this man now bore the title of "servant", Matthew wasn't his master and truly, this man was no different than he—certainly not in the present world in which they lived. So Matthew did the only "logical" thing he could do…he laughed.

The chauffeur looked up at him, with wide, surprised eyes. Matthew just kept laughing, and within a matter of seconds…the chauffeur was laughing too.

"I…I suppose…that was a…a stupid question…" Matthew managed to say between his chuckles.

The chauffeur simply continued chuckling. "I…I thought…I thought you would be…Mr. Carson…not…not that it would matter…" he paused to take a deep breath. "I probably would have said the same thing…before telling him to feck off."

Matthew only laughed harder, and soon the two of them had collapsed onto a bench, each hugging their sides as if they were pained from the amount of laugher they were releasing. It felt good, though; he hadn't laughed this hard in ages, and it was a great release from all the stress.

"I…I don't believe we've met…" Matthew murmured, when he finally felt he had a control of himself. "Capt. Matthew Crawley…" he extended his hand to the chauffeur for a shake. The chauffeur paused and looked down at Matthew's hand, as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Matthew had a feeling he knew. "Just Matthew, is fine."

The chauffeur looked up at him, and then a slow smile began to spread across his face. "Tom Branson," he replied, and then took Matthew's hand and returned the shake.

"Good to meet you…Tom," Matthew said, to which the chauffeur—Tom, seemed to smile at, although he also wore a look of surprise.

"And you too…Matthew."

Matthew grinned and released Tom's hand. "Well, now we've been properly introduced and have all that 'formality business' out of the way, why don't you tell me what's the problem?"

Tom lifted a brow at Matthew's question. "You know anything about cars?"

Matthew made a bit of a face. "Not as much as I would like to know…but I'm not completely ignorant. I had to learn a few 'tricks of the trade' so to speak, when I was in the army."

Tom nodded his head. "So I've been told."

Matthew looked at the Irishman and wondered what had he been told. "I understand that you…" he paused. He didn't feel it was right to say the word "hired", even if that was how Robert had explained it. "…are a new arrival here, like myself."

Tom snorted at this, but didn't contradict the subject. "I was traveling to York, with my brother; we got separated during an attack. The agreement was that if this were to happen, to just keep heading northward, until we reached York. That would be where we would meet."

"Ah yes, Sybil told me that," Matthew murmured, recalling the conversation the two of them had last night at dinner.

Tom suddenly seemed to perk up at this. "She talked about me?"

Matthew's brow furrowed a little bit in confusion. "Well, when Cousin Robert—Lord Grantham," Matthew explained. "When he told me that a new…chauffeur had been hired…Sybil, she told me how it was that you came to be here."

Tom seemed to frown at this, or rather, frowned when Matthew had brought up how he had been "hired".

"They want to call me 'chauffeur' that's their affair. I'm only here until I can find Kieran. Then I'll be on my way to York again."

Matthew wasn't going to argue with the man about his decision. However, he was a little confused. "I…forgive me, I know I have no right to ask this, and you do seem to be the sort of man who won't hold back his feelings on the matter, so if I do overstep the line—"

"Don't worry," Tom said with a grin. "I'll be sure to tell you." Matthew found himself smiling at the Irishman's words. "But now I'm intrigued, so please…what's your question?"

"Well…if you had your brother had agreed to meet in York, if the two of you were separated…why are you…?"

Tom nodded his head, understanding Matthew's question. From the expression Matthew could make out on Tom's face, it was clear he was asking himself the same question.

"I…I know my brother…" he began. "And…I don't think Kieran would just…continue onward, like that. I think he would be doing what I'm doing…stopping and looking at every turn and in every village between there and York. So…that's what I'll be doing, in my own way."

Matthew nodded his head, although he was still frowning. Not because of Tom's reasons, but because he wondered how much time Tom was getting in looking for his brother. "Do you search every day?"

Tom was looking at the ground, his boot kicking the wrench he had thrown. "I've only been here for three days. I searched yesterday after…after you arrived," he explained. "And I rose early this morning, and searched too. However, the car was having some troubles, so I had to bring it back," he glared at the engine across from him, the one that had been smoking and sputtering and had made the loud banging sound.

Matthew didn't know Tom very well—what was he thinking? He didn't know the man at all! And yet…he felt a kinship with this Irishman. Perhaps it was because they had both lost beloved family members? Tom was convinced his brother, Kieran, was out there and alive; Matthew wanted to believe the same about his mother, but like Tom…he had no idea where exactly to begin his search. The urge to help his new…friend, began to grow inside him. Reggie Swire had helped him; why couldn't he help Tom?

"Where have you searched?" Matthew asked, rising from the bench.

"The north roads mainly…why?"

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to explore the other roads too; shall I drive or you?" he smiled, digging into his pocket and retrieving the keys to the Rolls-Royce Reggie had given him.

Tom rose and looked at the keys Matthew was holding. "You'll give me your car?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking," Matthew answered. "Let me help you with your search. I know these roads a little bit—not as well as my cousins, but I did live in the village for a few years before the War, so…let me help. It will be good, anyway, to get an idea of the perimeters surrounding Downton…and seeing how vulnerable it is from certain angles."

Tom lifted his eyebrows and nodded his head. "Spoken like a true soldier."

Matthew reached out and clapped a hand on Tom's shoulder. "I think we're all soldiers now."

Tom looked at Matthew's hand, but didn't seem to take offense. He turned his gaze back to Matthew and gave a wry grin. "I think you're right." He then took the keys out of Matthew's hand. "But I'm driving."

Matthew chuckled, but conceded the keys to Tom. "Fine; I'll be lookout."

As they proceeded to the Rolls-Royce, Matthew glanced over at Tom and wondered about asking the Irishman this question, especially after the answers he had received from Anna and Thomas about the matter. "May I ask…why you and your brother were going to York?"

Tom looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. "We heard stories…from people, in Liverpool. That was where we had come from, you see. We heard stories that things were better in York, that…that they had everything under control—"

"Food, supplies, medicine, that sort of thing," Matthew added. "Even…soldiers and a possible…cure?"

Tom nodded his head. "That's right. So you've heard the stories too?"

Now it was Matthew's turn to shrug. "I've heard a little. I've also heard…that it may not be true."

He wondered how Tom would react to that piece of news, but the Irishman didn't seem to react at all. "Aye, I've heard that too," he murmured. "But…when you have nothing left in the world, what can you do but pursue a dream, even if it's a false one?"

His words gave Matthew some pause. Indeed, what else did one have to lose? But the truth was…even though the idea was still new to him, he wanted to believe that maybe it was true? Or at the very least, he wanted to believe that maybe his mother was there…

"Can I ask you something?" Tom asked, as he climbed behind the wheel of the car. Matthew only nodded. It was fair, after all, from the questions he had asked. "Just as you had extended that courtesy to me, about overstepping lines and what not, I extend it to you." Matthew chuckled but nodded his head, encouraging Tom to continue. "It's just…I've only been here a few days, but…it's a mad house!"

Matthew was surprised by Tom's words, but he found himself laughing. "That sounds more like a statement, actually."

Tom chuckled too. "I suppose what I'm trying to ask is, as someone like yourself who's upstairs and interacting with his Lordship…are they serious? I mean, in how things are run here? As if…as if _nothing_ has happened?"

Matthew couldn't help but groan, and he was sure that in itself was an answer for his new friend.

"They're good people, Tom; they're just…misguided, I think. Or…unsure on what to do."

"That may be…but something's going to have to change. They won't survive if they continue on like this."

Matthew had a feeling Tom was right about that, and it bothered him. He loved the Crawley's, and he cared for the staff, who in their own way, were an extension of the Crawley's. And it pained him to think that Robert and Cora and all the rest of them were trying to cling to the way things were, as a way to battle how things weren't. Maybe it was time to face facts? Maybe it was time to…change the routine.

"Tom…you strike me as the sort of person who's not afraid to…'shake things up', if the need presents itself."

Tom chuckled as he turned the keys and the engine of the Rolls-Royce roared to life. "Now whatever gave you that impression, Capt. Crawley?"

* * *

_Hehehehehe, gotta love the Matthew/Tom BROTP :oP And are there any Carson/Hughes fans out there reading this? I threw that in just for you ;o) And yep, changes they are a-comin'! THANKS FOR READING! Please leave a comment!_


	13. Changes

_Sorry for the lateness with this chapter (it's still technically Sunday in my corner of the world!) I promise zombie slaying action in the next one, but I think you'll like this one, as it sets up some BIG events that will be coming soon! Thanks so much for the reviews and the follows! Please keep them coming, they really help inspire me!_

* * *

_Chapter Thirteen_

"**Changes"**

Things needed to change.

A week had passed since his return to Downton, but Matthew found himself feeling even more restless than the week he had spent with the Swire's. At least there, with Reggie, he felt there was purpose for what they did, going out and…hunting…Walkers. While yes, having to kill and bury two dear friends was quite traumatic, at the same time, he never wanted to see anything like that happen again, and if that meant going back out and "hunting", to keep the Walkers as far away from Downton as possible, and to keep the people of Downton protected from having to meet the same fate as Molesley and Mrs. Bird…then so be it.

But it was more than just that, more than simply sitting and feeling idle. Even before the War, when he was learning the "ropes" so to speak, about one day becoming the future Earl of Grantham, Matthew knew he would be a very different earl. As a man born and raised in a middle class household, where one needed to go forth and work in order to pay the bills, he knew he would not be the sort of earl who spent long hours lounging in his library. Although he knew Robert did a great deal more than just that, he also knew that Robert was…trapped…so to speak, in the previous century. He was still running things the way his father had run them (the very man who had nearly driven the estate into the ground, hence why he desperately needed his son to marry an American heiress). Matthew knew that he would do things differently; he was taking an interest in agricultural technology, and he would take a very special interest in the maintaining of the farms on the Earl of Grantham's land. He knew he would be the sort of earl who would want to not only get to know his tenants, but work beside them, find out what gifts they could bring and offer to enrich the land and help Downton prosper. Basically…Matthew saw himself as a man of action. And even though the whole question of the earldom had changed because of what was happening in the world…Matthew still saw the need for change in how Downton was being run.

Matthew still couldn't believe how his cousins lived. Robert, Cora, their daughters, even the staff…they all behaved as if it were just "another day" at Downton Abbey. Yes, they carried weapons around, especially when they went outside for whatever various chores needed to be done, but…they continued with their daily and nightly rituals as if nothing had happened.

_"Familiarity provides comfort during difficult and traumatic times",_ he remembered his mother once explaining to him, when he was a child and asked his mother why she was baking a cake for a neighbor whose husband had died. That may be, but his cousins, from what he could gather, seemed to be in absolute denial! Tom was right, the place was a madhouse!

Yes, at least there was one person Matthew could rely on talking to, for a "sane" opinion. Every day, since the first time he had accompanied Tom, Matthew would travel alongside him while Tom searched for his brother, giving Matthew the opportunity to "hunt". Although really, it was an opportunity for Matthew to release his frustrations on how Downton was being run.

_"I understand they want to keep some…semblance…of how things were. But…it's utterly ridiculous that they still insist on dressing for dinner each night!"_

_ Tom let out a humored snort from his nose. "You'll hear no argument from me."_

_ "But you know, what really bothers me isn't so much that they want to hold onto these little 'traditions', but that they refuse to accept certain realities! There's no reason why Mary or the rest of the ladies don't know how to defend themselves," he muttered in annoyance._

_ Tom chuckled. "I don't know about that. While I haven't seen her fire it, Lady Mary does seem to know how to carry and hold a pistol. And as for Lady Sybil…well, you didn't see her take on that 'Walker', as you call them. And that was with a tree branch!"_

_ Matthew found himself nodding. "Sybil seems to be the only one of my cousins who understands the dangers we're living in, and the necessity to change our ways." He paused and found himself thinking about what Tom had said. "Although I do think you're right, about Mary, I mean. I can see her being a very good shot…"_

While he unleashed many of his frustrations to Tom, he chose to keep the ones about Sir Richard Carlisle to himself.

He didn't like the man, plain and simple. They were very different in personality, in attitude, and even though they both had come from similar middle-class backgrounds, Sir Richard saw himself as a man even above the aristocratic class, because of the "mountains of money" his newspapers had generated. But that money was gone now, Matthew wanted to mutter. However, every time he felt a retort on the tip of his tongue, Mary was there to put a hand atop Sir Richard's…and the retort quickly died in his throat.

Yes, if he were honest with himself, _that_ was the reason why he didn't care for the man. Sir Richard Carlisle had succeeded where he had failed; Sir Richard had won Lady Mary Crawley's heart and somehow had managed to secure her hand in marriage.

Perhaps that was another reason Matthew longed for escape? Just to get away from Sir Richard and his constant presence around Mary. Not since the day he had returned, had Matthew found an opportunity to talk with her, alone. Sir Richard was like a shadow, always hovering nearby, and always touching her in some way, whether it was her hand, her arm, her shoulder…God, it was infuriating!

But what made things worse was that it was obvious that Sir Richard could tell Matthew was frustrated by how things were being run. Because whenever he tried to point out something to Robert or Cora, about some of the routines which they continued to follow that truly served no purpose any longer—Sir Richard was there to argue the opposite point, the point Matthew knew that his cousins would rather listen to.

Things needed to change…and soon; otherwise Matthew would go mad.

That morning, Matthew had wandered downstairs to the Servant's Hall. He was curious as to how the people there were fairing. The second he had wandered into the room, the few that were seated around the table quickly rose, as they had done before the War, as they would do if he were the present earl. O'Brien was mending something for Cousin Cora, Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, and Mrs. Hughes were going through the store cupboard's lists, and Carson…of all things, was polishing candlesticks! Meanwhile, Ethel was upstairs changing bed sheets, Thomas was acting as valet to Robert while Bates was in bed, and William…Matthew had no idea what William was doing, but no doubt he was serving as footman once again, instead of the soldier he had become.

The routine of a pre-Walker world remained, despite the pile of weapons he had seen, stacked inside the store cupboard.

"Is there something we can do for you, Capt. Crawley?" Mrs. Hughes asked, being the first to speak after his surprising arrival.

Matthew looked at all of them, and remembered what Anna had told him before returning to Downton. _This is all that remains_. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, Thomas, O'Brien, Bates, Anna, Ethel, William, and Daisy—these ten were all that remained of Downton's once thriving staff.

"No thank you, Mrs. Hughes…" he murmured, forcing a smile, although it was difficult to do. "I um…I just had a question, really." He looked at them and remembered how Anna had explained to him that she had _insisted_ Bates teach her how to shoot. "I was curious, how many of you know how to use a weapon?"

The sudden clatter of a candlestick hitting the table caused everyone to jump slightly, but Carson paid no heed, he simply stared at Matthew with wide and possibly disbelieving eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

Matthew squared his shoulders as he faced the butler. He had a feeling Carson would react this way; both he and Robert were very similar. "I think it's important that every member of staff, both men _and_ women, know how to properly protect themselves."

Carson's chest seemed to puff up and bristle, like a gamecock preparing for a nasty fight. "Has his Lordship authorized this?" he managed to speak through what sounded like clenched teeth.

Matthew sighed and shook his head. "His Lordship is unaware—"

"Then I suggest, _sir_, that you speak with him first. Because I…and the staff here at Downton, while happy to serve you, answer _only_ to the orders his Lordship, Robert Crawley."

Matthew met Carson's gaze; it was hard as steel and showed no sign of backing down. Tom had warned him about this. In some ways, Carson reminded Matthew of a stubborn general he once knew, a man who was determined to do things as how he believed they should be done, no matter the consequences.

He lifted his chin and said in an even tone, "then I _will_ speak with his Lordship." And that was that. Matthew murmured "good day" to the other members of staff, and turned to leave. However, before he had ascended the stairs, he was stopped by Mrs. Hughes, who reached out and briefly touched his wrist.

"I agree with you, captain…" she whispered, carefully glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the Servant's Hall. "But it will be hard to convince both his Lordship _and_ Mr. Carson, when things have been so quiet over the past few weeks…"

Matthew sighed and shook his head. "A Walker attacking Lady Edith and Lady Sybil is hardly 'quiet'. Nor when a search party returns from nearly being killed…and having to encounter…what…what happened to Molesley and Mrs. Bird, in the village," he swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn't want to think of his friends as "Walkers"; but at the same time, he couldn't deny the tragedy that had befallen them. "Things may have been quiet, Mrs. Hughes, but that 'quiet' is ending. And if we're not prepared…then God help us all."

* * *

Anna ran her fingers along the back of John's hand. He had fallen asleep, and she was glad. Last night had been very fitful for him, and he couldn't stop moaning about the pain. Against her better judgment, she filled him with brandy…so much so that he became violently ill. But what else could be done? Getting him drunk seemed to be the only way to numb the pain he was feeling as his bones tried to heal themselves. But that only brought on a different pain; his chest and stomach hurt from the amount of heaving he had done, and his head pounded from the after effects of the alcohol. In her battle to fight Mr. Bates' pain, she feared she was only making him sicker.

"How is he?"

Anna looked up and offered a small smile at Lady Sybil, standing in the doorway, wearing her old nurses' uniform. She was aware of Anna's distress, and had tried several times during the night to keep the housemaid calm, as well as offered to sit up with Mr. Bates so that she could get some sleep. But Anna knew that was an impossible feat; how could she sleep, let alone relax, when her beloved Mr. Bates was in such pain?

"He's finally sleeping," Anna murmured, turning her smile back to Mr. Bates.

"Good," Lady Sybil whispered, coming over and gently placing her hand against his brow. "And his temperature feels as if it's gone down too, although I'll know for certain when he's awake and can use the thermometer."

Anna nibbled her lip at this. "Should I wake him—"

"Oh no!" Lady Sybil shook her head. "No, no, let him rest; heaven knows he deserves it."

Anna couldn't help but nod her head in agreement, and then lifted her hand to brush a few fallen strands of hair from his brow.

"You should get some rest too, Anna," Lady Sybil tried to reason. "He'll be fine. Besides, you've done so much already—"

"Me? I haven't done anything—"

"Oh Anna, you know that's not true," Lady Sybil shushed. "Why in some ways, you're on the road to becoming a proper nurse," she lightly teased, hoping to win a smile from the housemaid's face. "But in all seriousness, I know this has been a difficult week for you—"

"Mrs. Hughes has been very kind; far kinder than I deserve," Anna sighed. "No doubt Ethel resents me for the all the extra work my absence has forced her to do."

"I don't mind sitting with him while you get some sleep—"

But Anna shook her head. "Oh no, milady, that's very kind of you, but the truth is…_this_ is my place. Mr. Bates and I have been through so much, that it seems such a foreign idea…the thought of being away from him, even for a moment…"

Lady Sybil couldn't help but smile at her, and reached forward to take her hand and give it an encouraging squeeze. "Oh Anna, we should all be as lucky as you and Bates."

But even at this kind sentiment, Anna found herself shaking her head. "Luck would have been his wife agreeing to the divorce before any of this happened. Luck would have been the two of us married by now, and facing this strange, terrifying world as husband and wife," she turned her head back to her dear, beloved John and ran her fingers across his flushed cheek. "Luck would be the two of us happy and healthy…"

"He _will_ get better, Anna," Lady Sybil said with a great deal of determination. "The bone is setting fine, from what I can see; I know this is difficult, facing the pain I mean, but he _is_ healing, and he will be walking again, soon…"

Anna tried to nod her head and tried to have that same determination that her young mistress held, but it was difficult. Mr. Bates had suffered so much before all this had happened. He had struggled to walk before, how would he manage now? And then, of course, there was the issue with the pain…

"Milady, I am thankful for all that you have done, truly…but…and I apologize, for I know I have been over this, but…are you sure there isn't anything we can do for him, that doesn't require making him drunk until he can barely hold anything in his stomach?"

Lady Sybil sighed, and Anna knew the sound of that sigh. It was one full of defeat. However, Sybil reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small vile, as well as a needle. "I went through the old store cupboard, the one we kept for supplies when the officers were still here," she explained. "It's…it's not much…no more than two doses at most," she sighed with disappointment. "But…it will do much better than the brandy."

Anna stared at the vile and the needle with wide, surprised eyes. Even though Lady Sybil hadn't told her what the vile contained, she knew without a doubt what that liquid was: morphine.

"We'll offer it to him later," Lady Sybil explained. "There's no point now, while he's sleeping. But we'll monitor his progress as the night continues, and save it for when the pain seems unbearable."

"Oh milady!" Anna gasped, fresh tears coming to her eyes, but a relieved expression falling across her face. "Oh thank you, thank you!" she rose to her feet and hugged Sybil tightly, to which Lady Sybil laughed, but hugged her back.

"I wish I could offer more—"

"Just knowing that we have this, as small as it is, brings so much relief!" Anna sighed, hugging the vile to her chest. "Oh thank you, milady; thank you so much!"

Lady Sybil hugged Anna again, clearly glad that she could help. However, unbeknownst to them both, another pair of eyes was watching this happy display. The face to which that pair of eyes belonged, also smiled—but for very different reasons.

* * *

She was trying to do her best, trying to stay focused and do the work she was required to do, but it was difficult when he was around. Mainly because he would be hovering over her shoulder, watching her work, and occasionally making comments about how he liked to think this was how it would be, when they had their own home. Daisy normally would put on a smile, but rarely replied to those comments. It wasn't that she disliked William; far from it! She did think him sweet and kind and good looking (perhaps not as handsome as Thomas, but then she had learned about that the hard way). But Daisy didn't like to…rush things. In some ways, Daisy thought of herself as a delicate "soufflé"—rushing her to feel something when she wasn't quite yet ready, would surely lead to a terrible collapse (at least that was what Mrs. Patmore had once compared her to, and Mrs. Patmore was famous for comparing people to various dishes).

"So…what do you think?"

She was trying to make a Yorkshire pudding, which was difficult because she lacked meat. There was hardly any meat left in the larder, and while it seemed odd to not have meat in something as basic as a Yorkshire pudding, Mrs. Patmore had insisted that they save it for when they would truly need it—and try to make up for the lack of meat by simply adding more potatoes. Needless to say, Daisy was feeling frustrated, and hoped that if William insisted on being there, the least he could do was peel more potatoes for her. "What?" she asked, wiping her brow as she leaned over the pot where she was mixing the vegetables and the extremely thin gravy. "What do you mean?"

William wasn't peeling any longer, she had noticed, and much to her irritation. Ever since he and the others had returned from their mission, he seemed to…sulk…a great deal.

"What do you think about what Capt. Crawley said? About how he thinks it's important that all the women know how to use a weapon too?"

Daisy shrugged her shoulders. The truth was, she hadn't given the idea much thought, even before Capt. Crawley had offered his opinion. "I spend so much time in here, I don't know if it matters…"

"But there was that time when you were attacked in the orchard," William mentioned. He hadn't been there, of course, but once he had learned about the attack, he hovered even closer than he had before. As if he expected some Walker to burst into the kitchen where she worked. She knew he did it because he cared, but Daisy couldn't deny, she found it all a bit suffocating.

"That was just the one time—"

"One time too many," William muttered.

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Mr. Carson was there—"

"Yes, but he tripped and fell, remember?"

She did remember, and she remembered how upset and embarrassed Mr. Carson was after that incident. She glanced towards the kitchen doorway, just be sure the butler wasn't listening, otherwise both she and William would be getting an earful.

"I'm thinking that maybe Capt. Crawley is right…" William continued.

Daisy's attention returned to the pot. "I don't know the first thing about firing a gun."

William seemed to perk up a little. "I could teach you!"

She nibbled on her bottom lip. While she knew William was brave, and had heard from several people that he was an excellent marksman, something about the idea of him teaching her how to shoot unnerved her. But perhaps that had more to do with the idea of her, holding a gun, and firing it, no doubt causing her to fall over from the blast.

"I have too much to do!" she groaned, eyeing the bowl of unpeeled potatoes by William's side. It wasn't completely true; they weren't making any grand dishes as they had in the past, therefore she wasn't as busy as she used to be. But there was talk that Daisy's duties would expand to those of housemaid, especially since Anna was occupied with looking after Mr. Bates.

"Daisy, how's that pudding coming?" Mrs. Patmore grumbled as she entered the kitchen. "Here now, stop distracting her!" she scolded William with a bit of an eye roll. Daisy wondered if Mrs. Patmore ever regretted encouraging her to let William think of the two of them as sweethearts? The cook began to rummage through a few things nearby, muttering to herself as she went. "How can we be out of salt? There has to be some around here!"

Daisy bit her lip and continued her work, not wanting to irritate the woman further. The truth was, their supplies were beginning to run very low. _Dangerously low_. And she had been wondering what would happen when certain things…like meat and salt…ran out?

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Patmore?" William asked, his voice sounding quite eager to help. Although, he had sounded that eager earlier, when he "volunteered" to peel potatoes.

"Unless you can magically make things appear, then no!" the cook snapped.

A brief silence fell over the room while Daisy continued her stirring and Mrs. Patmore continued her rummaging…and then William broke it, by asking, "What if I went into the village to get the items you need?"

Both Daisy and Mrs. Patmore froze and turned to look at him as if he had just told them that he could walk through walls.

"Are you mad?" Mrs. Patmore asked, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "With those _things_ running around out there?"

William squared his shoulders a little, as if trying to imitate Capt. Crawley from earlier. "We can't live a life ruled by fear," he boldly stated. "And we can't live a life where we pretend nothing's changed in here, when it has out there."

Mrs. Patmore's mouth hung open, and Daisy continued staring in shock. She wasn't sure what was going to happen next; William make another bold declaration like that, or for Mrs. Patmore to explode at what he was suggesting. Oh God, what _was_ he suggesting? Was he truly serious? She knew that William sometimes liked to say certain things to "impress" her…or to try and appear braver than Thomas. But…did he mean it? Was he actually volunteering to go back to the village, the very place where Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Bird had…had…

A fearful tremble shook her. Very similar to that feeling she had had over a week ago…

"Never mind any of that," Mrs. Patmore attempted to reason, her voice sounding much calmer than it had been just a few seconds ago. "We can always make do—we've _been_ making do. No need to—"

"Beggin' your pardon, Mrs. Patmore, but I disagree," he then turned his gaze to her, and Daisy felt her face burn hot. "And I disagree with Mr. Carson too; _all_ of us need to know how to protect ourselves and handle a weapon."

"Bite your tongue!" Mrs. Patmore hissed, but Daisy knew she said this more because she was afraid that Mr. Carson would come around the corner and start bellowing at poor William for daring to repeat Capt. Crawley's suggestion.

But William only shook his head. "No, I think Capt. Crawley is right. And I will stand by him when he goes to speak with his Lordship about it."

"Need I remind you that Capt. Crawley doesn't work for his Lordship_, while you do?"_ Mrs. Patmore hissed.

"Do any of us _really_ work for his Lordship anymore?" William asked, once again causing Mrs. Patmore to stare in shock. Even Daisy's mouth fell open at the words. William seemed to take this moment of stunned silence as an end to the conversation, and therefore bowed his head politely, before turning and leaving the room. Only until after he left, did she manage to closer her mouth.

"That boy is going to get himself killed!" Mrs. Patmore groaned, throwing her hands up into the air in exasperation. "Or worse…sacked!"

Daisy frowned at the cook's words, but quickly turned around and began stirring once more; not wanting to bear the brunt of any insults the cook would throw in her irritation.

Should she be worried for William? This wasn't like those other times, where he tried to "boast" his bravery. After all, when his Lordship asked Mr. Bates to go on that scouting mission to Ripon, didn't William volunteer before the request was finished? Yes…and based on what he had just said, it sounded like he was once again volunteering for such a mission, as well as for helping bring serious change to the house! He said he would stand by Capt. Crawley when the captain went to speak with his Lordship, and she knew, just as he had volunteered to go along with Mr. Bates…he meant it!

But as she glanced over her shoulder, looking out the door William had disappeared and catching Mr. Carson's profile in passing…Daisy knew it wasn't his Lordship that needed the convincing.

* * *

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip as she once again looked up from beneath the rim of her gardening bonnet, to see if she could catch a glimpse of Mr. Branson. Normally, during the afternoons, he was out in search of his brother. Matthew, from what she understood, often accompanied him. However, today the Rolls-Royce which they normally took was having a few engine problems, so Mr. Branson was more or less "confined" to the garage, trying to sort the problem out.

"Everything alright?"

Sybil blushed furiously, and quickly lowered her head, focusing once again on her gardening task. Her "would-be" brother-in-law had "volunteered" to watch her while she went about her task, although in Sybil's mind, it was more of an "order" from her parents and sister. She knew Sir Richard didn't want to be out here "babysitting" her any more than she wanted his company. Yet stuck together they were; he smoking a cigar and "keeping a look out", while she tended to the graves.

"Lord, it's hot," Sir Richard grumbled, looking up at the sun overhead. Sybil lifted her eyes too, but not to the sky. Branson must have felt the heat as well, because he had the garage doors wide open…and he had removed his jacket…and had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows…and it looked as if his shirt were open at the collar, exposing his neck and collarbone…and…oh Lord, was he removing his waistcoat now?

She adverted her eyes once again and began to pluck at the weeds with a little more vigor than necessary.

Poor Branson. He had been there for over a week, and still there was no sign of his brother. No doubt everyone suspected the worst and thought Branson was in denial. But if he had doubts, he didn't show them. Granted, they hadn't had an opportunity to speak since the day Matthew returned (and the day Mary had lectured her in front of Branson—oh she was embarrassed!) But from what she could gather, judging from his posture, his expressions (or what she could see of them from this distance) and from what Matthew had told her whenever she tried to "casually" ask after Branson, when the two of them returned from their search...the Irishman ever remained the optimist.

And she found that very admirable.

"Collecting dandelions again?"

Sybil gasped and looked up, her eyes widening as the very man she had been thinking about was standing right in front of her, his broad frame managing to momentarily block out the sun from the angle where he stood.

She felt her cheeks burn as she realized her eyes were lingering perhaps a little too long on the exposed skin of his throat…and collarbone…and the breadth of his chest and shoulders…

"No!" she blurted out, a little too loudly, and then lowered her eyes once again. Lord, she sounded like a right idiot! "I…I…just weeding this time…" she muttered, pulling tufts of grass in her haste to appear busy. "No one wanted to try dandelion salad so…there's no point."

He was chuckling at her. Lord, this was mortifying! She didn't dare lift her eyes.

"Shame," he sighed, before crouching down until he was at eyelevel with her again. "Because I must confess, I was looking forward to it."

Her eyes shot up to his, and she felt her breath catch in her throat as she realized just…how close they were. She swallowed as her eyes, once again, began to drift to his exposed skin…and then to his roguish smile…and laughing blue eyes…

"I…I thought you hated the taste?" she whispered, recalling how he had winced when he had eaten that one dandelion.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Actually, I said it was an 'acquired taste'; but I also said I would gladly try anything you made…"

If it were possible, Sybil's cheeks seemed to burn even hotter. Was…was he…_flirting with her?_

_Oh don't be silly! And stop blushing like some simpering school girl! What would Sylvia Pankhurst make of your behavior?_

"Sir Richard?"

She lifted her eyes as she realized that Branson was addressing her so-called "babysitter".

"I don't mind taking over the watch for Lady Sybil, if you wish to go inside and get out of the heat…"

If any other man had spoken thusly, Sybil would have turned red with outrage. However, this was Branson, and even though she barely knew him, she _did_ feel she knew him well enough to know he didn't think her weak. And she also knew it was for very different reasons, as to why her face was so red.

Sir Richard didn't seem too upset by the suggestion. In fact, he looked a little relieved. "Well, if you don't mind…" he murmured, looking to Branson instead of herself. _Men; in their minds, a woman can't make a decision on her own!_ "In fact, I do remember I wanted to speak with Capt. Crawley about something…and I believe he was going to sit down with my future father-in-law for a special meeting, and I would like to be present for that…"

Sybil had a feeling Sir Richard had some other motive, but she chose to keep her thoughts to herself.

"Aye, I believe you're right, sir," Branson murmured, confirming Sir Richard's question about Matthew's whereabouts.

"Well, it's settled then," he smiled, glancing at her before clapping a hand on Branson's shoulder, although unlike Matthew, the gesture seemed very…patronizing. "Besides, I think Lady Sybil is in good hands."

Sybil turned away and quickly began to pull at the grass once more, praying that by the time she lifted her eyes to Branson's, her blush would have managed to go away. Yet she somehow doubted that was possible; perhaps she could blame the heat?

Sir Richard left then, and soon it was just the two of them, once more.

_Say something!_ "So…how is the car coming?"

He crouched down until he was at her level again. "I think I have the problem fixed…" he sighed, removing a rag from his back-pocket and using it to wipe the sweat from his brow. "But that's just one problem in many."

She watched him as he wiped his face…the gesture causing some of his hair to fall across it_. I didn't realize that it was blonde,_ she found herself thinking. She had thought his hair light brown…but now she could tell that some of it, at least his fringe, was in fact a dark blonde color. _Like honey._

Once again, her cheeks burned—damn this heat!

"Oh?" she murmured, trying to keep her voice from squeaking. "What other problems are there?"

The sigh that he made had a serious edge, and any nervousness that Sybil had been feeling suddenly disappeared. Something was wrong…

"We're running low on petrol," he groaned under his breath. "And it's all my fault."

Sybil's eyes widened at the revelation, but she was quickly shaking her head. "No, no, you had every right to take the car—you're trying to find your brother!"

"I should have walked," he muttered, clearly annoyed with himself, but Sybil refused to let him take the blame.

"You couldn't have covered half the ground you were able to cover if you had."

A snort escaped his nostrils. "Maybe, but my searches have been fruitless…"

_No, please don't give up hope! If you give up, how will the rest of us have hope?_

"Well, keep in mind that your brother is traveling by foot, so he won't be able to journey as far as you…and no doubt he's searching every farm house and tool shed looking for you! But your paths will cross, I'm sure of it! And…and maybe he has gone forward, to York, as you had originally planned. Maybe that's where we need to look next?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her words, and that roguish smile she had seen him wear suddenly returned. _"We?"_

Had she said "we"? Oh Lord, she had! Was it possible for her face to burn any brighter? Surely all the blood in her body had gone to her head!

"Y-y-yes…" she stammered, trying to get a hold of herself. "You know…you and…and Matthew."

"Ah, yes…" he murmured, looking down and away from her. However, she didn't miss his gentle chuckle and amused expression. "You're a stubborn woman, Lady Sybil."

His statement was very direct—and very bold. No man had ever spoken to her in such a way, and if any member of her family…or any member of staff had just heard him now, they would reprimand him immediately, before sacking him on the spot. Yet…she liked the way he talked to her. _As if we're equals…_

"Thank you, Mr. Branson," she replied, a proud smile spreading across her lips. "I take that as a compliment."

He grinned and nodded his head. "I'm glad…because I meant it as such."

A pleasant silence seemed to fall across them then. Sybil found herself once again, nibbling her lip and blushing as her eyes bashfully traveled from his own, to his smiling lips…and then again, to his exposed throat.

And that was when an idea struck her.

"So you say the Rolls-Royce is nearly out of petrol?"

He was surprised by her sudden question, but nodded his head. "Aye. I'll need to try and find a station where I can fill—"

"I know of one," she interrupted. "Not far from here…can't be more than five miles, I would think."

Branson's eyebrows lifted at this revelation. "That's further than the village, then…"

Sybil nodded her head. "It's in the opposite direction, actually…northeast of the house," she pointed to the distance. "I um…I can take you there, if you'd like?"

He had been looking off in the direction she had been pointing, but at these words he whipped his head back to her so quickly she thought he would give himself whiplash! "Do you think that's wise?"

She knew what he meant, and she knew that it wasn't. Her family would be furious with her if they learned that she had not only traveled away from the house, but that she had traveled without a chaperone. _But in their eyes, he's just a servant; it's not like I'm stepping out with a potential suitor…_

The thought caused her breath to catch.

"Well, how else will you find the place?" she challenged, the pitch of her voice sounding a tad higher than normal. _Yes, that will be my excuse if they ask; he needed petrol, and couldn't find the station without some help. We won't be gone for very long, they probably won't even notice my absence! _

"Alright," he chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. "You win. Besides, I think your cousin is going to be rather…occupied, for some time."

She found his words curious, but decided her question could wait. He rose to his feet, brushed any dirt or grass from his trousers, and then offered her a hand to help her up. Sybil swallowed and accepted his hand, and gave a squeal as he hoisted her up with one quick tug, causing her to laugh and him to grin. "Lead the way, milady…" he said with a bow, acting just like the chauffeur her father had hired.

She smiled and moved quickly, not wanting to reveal any of her blush. However, just before she reached the garage to where the car was waiting, she paused, an idea coming to her head—a bold and brash idea, perhaps an even foolish idea…but if she didn't act on this opportunity, when would it ever present itself to her again?

"Branson…" she murmured, turning around to face him. He paused and looked at her, a curious expression crossing his features. "If I show you the way to the petrol station…will you do something for me?"

He looked a little taken aback by her question…but that roguish smile appeared once more, along with the twinkle in his handsome blue eyes. "Anything."

A few seconds ago, that answer would have caused a strange butterfly feeling to fill her stomach, and no doubt her cheeks would have glowed red. However, what she was about to ask was very serious; far too serious to be taken lightly. "Teach me to shoot."

* * *

Anna had been called away. She had watched from her shadowy corner as Ethel entered the blue room where Bates was sleeping to fetch the head housemaid. Why Anna was being called away, she didn't know, nor did she care. Lady Mary probably needed her stockings mended, or Lady Edith wanted a dress ironed, or Lady Sybil wanted…who knows, the girl confused her with her strange political yammering. The point was…the room was empty, save for Mr. Bates. But he was asleep. Well out of it, from what she had overheard Anna say to Lady Sybil. No one would know…

Sarah O'Brien entered the room then, quietly and calmly, glancing around the corner first to make sure there was no one in sight. _Be quick. Don't linger. Do your task and then disappear…_

She moved into the room, to the place where Anna had been sitting…her eyes never leaving her target.

_Look at him,_ she found herself thinking. _Look at how helpless he is, how vulnerable. Any sort of "accident" could happen…and there's no one here to stop it from happening…_

A smile spread across her face at the thought. Yes, an accident could happen…very, _very_ easily…

And that was what exactly happened.

Sarah's hip brushed the bedside table…

And while the lampshade gave a slight tremble, the lamp itself was far too heavy, far too strong and sturdy to fall forward.

…Unlike the vile of morphine.

"Oh dear…" Sarah sighed, as the vile fell to the ground, the glass smashing…and the liquid contents spilling out…and soaking into the carpet. "What a shame," she said with a slight "tsk" of her tongue. Well, nothing could be done now, could it? Other than to clean the spill, of course.

But that was the kind of job for a housemaid; certainly not for a lady's maid like Sarah O'Brien.


	14. Help

_The next two or three chapters may seem a little strange, in the sense of pacing; lots of zombie action is coming, with a *touch* of it in this one; we'll be seeing some parallels between "calm" moments to "action" moments, so if it seems strange to go from one such moment to the other, that's why. It will make more sense in the next chapter, just go with it! :oP_

_I'm so glad people are responding to this story! I recently started a Tumblr, so I will be posting updates about it on that too. And to my fellow Sybil/Tom fans...there's quite a bit of S/T in this chapter and the next (but don't worry fans of other 'ships! Lots of action involving your favorites are coming too!) Stay tuned as always, please leave a comment, and thank you for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Fourteen_

"**Help"**

Alone at last.

In some ways, Mary couldn't help but admit she relished the solitude. It was a hard thing to find in a house like this. Even though in the past there had been more servants, and even during the days when Downton served as a convalescent home for the recovering soldiers, there was still a chance to sneak into a room and simply sit by oneself with a cup of tea and a book. Now, even though the population of the house was smaller, there was more of a "demand", so to speak, to know where everyone was at all times. And Sir Richard was perhaps the worst of all…

She had chosen him for many reasons. And one of those reasons was because she believed she could trust him to give her the space she desired. After all, he was so busy with his newspapers she assumed that several days could pass where the two of hardly spoke to one another. And there be several weeks in a row, where he would have to stay in London, leaving her in charge of managing Haxby, or whatever estate they chose. Some may think that a lonely life, but it suited her. She and Sir Richard understood the necessity for…space. Or so she thought.

But now, he was constantly hovering. Some days she would open her bedroom door and find him waiting for her, smiling handsomely, and offering to escort her downstairs to breakfast. She would put on a smile for his benefit, but inside she wanted to scream. I'm not my sister, I don't need constant watching! At least when she was inside the house, she was perfectly safe! Why all this fuss? And was it her imagination…or had it worsened since Matthew returned? Now, Sir Richard seemed to be following her from room to room. And he was always…touching her. Her hand, or her elbow, or her shoulder. He was always finding ways to brush his fingers along her skin, and while she knew many women would adore such attention from their fiancées, Mary found it down-right irritating.

But she couldn't tell him that, of course.

Instead, she created excuses. She would go and sit with Mama or Granny (he'd never believe her if she told him she wanted to sit with Edith). Edith was too busy sulking in her room, or in the corridor outside it. And Sybil…oh heaven knows what Sybil was getting up to. Probably sharpening her garden shears, the foolish girl. At least Sir Richard was watching her. Which meant she didn't have to spend an entire day with Granny and Mama. And maybe…she could find Matthew? And the two of them could finally speak without her fiancée hovering? That is, of course, if he weren't driving around the countryside with the bloody chauffeur.

Mary rolled her eyes at the thought. Every day he was with Branson, trying to help the Irishman find his brother, who was most likely dead, but she didn't dare bring it up, of course, lest she receive a cold stare of disapproval from her youngest sister. But it was more than just helping Branson look for the other Mr. Branson; Matthew was…concerned, apparently. Based on the few things she had heard him mention over dinner the last few nights, she was getting the impression that he perhaps didn't…approve…of the way Papa was managing things.

_Oh what does he know? He's been in a bloody coma all this time! He hasn't had to deal with the trauma that the rest of us have had face. He didn't see the village flee northwards, he didn't bury the bodies of the servants and officers who gave their lives to save Downton. _

Yes, she was bitter; she would admit that much to herself at least. She was bitter that…that she had mourned him for all this time, when in fact he wasn't dead. She was bitter that even though there had been some opportunities to speak in private, he hadn't taken them. But most of all…she was bitter because his return was complicating things.

_You're engaged to Sir Richard,_ she tried to remind herself. _He wants you, whereas Matthew didn't—doesn't, even. _Yes, she needed to keep reminding herself of this.

She continued her walk, passing several rooms as she went. She had heard from Mrs. Hughes that Matthew wanted to speak with her father about something, and even though she wasn't sure what it was, she had every intention of being present. So she was marching on her way to the library…when the sound of sniffling caught her ears.

She frowned, recognizing the voice which the sniffles belonged to. She poked her head inside, and her eyes widened at the image of Anna, down on her knees, trying to soak up some sort of spill on the carpet just next to Bates' bed, where the valet slept. "Anna?"

Anna looked up and quickly tried to wipe her cheeks. "Milady?" she sniffled and took a deep breath, before putting on a small, polite smile. "Yes, is there something I can help you with?"

Mary knew the smile wasn't true. She stepped into room and approached the place where Anna knelt. "What's the matter?" she gently asked, frowning as she looked down at the dark spot on the carpet. "What's happened?"

Anna sat back and stared at the spot for a while on the carpet. Mary opened her mouth to ask again, thinking perhaps Anna hadn't heard her, but soon realized that the reason the housemaid was silent was because she was desperately trying to keep herself from sobbing. "Oh Anna!" Mary murmured, kneeling down next to the woman and gently taking one of her hands in hers. "Oh Anna, whatever's happened, I'm sure it can be fixed. I'm sure—"

"No, milady…" Anna gasped, swallowing the tears that threatened to burst. She shook her head, and then took the end of her apron to dab at her eyes and nose. "Beggin' your pardon, but…no, it can't be easily fixed, I'm afraid."

Mary didn't understand what had happened, but she knew that it was serious enough to cause Anna, who always seemed so calm and level-headed, to panic. "What is it, Anna, tell me, please?"

Anna sighed and nodded her head. "Lady Sybil found some…some morphine, this morning," she explained.

Mary's eyes widened. "I didn't think we had any left!"

Anna nodded her head. "Nor did I, but she found some…a small vial, no more than two doses, she believed, but…" she stopped and wiped her face again. She didn't really need to continue, Mary understood what had happened now.

There were some small shards of glass, gathered into a neat pile and waiting for a dustpan to transport it to a bin. But if that hadn't given it away, it was the wet stain. The vial had broken…and the morphine was gone.

"I can't believe I was so foolish!" Anna wailed.

Mary's eyebrows rose at this. "Surely you're not blaming yourself?"

But Anna nodded her head. "I put the vial on the table, there," she pointed. "It must have rolled off and…and…" she hiccupped and then covered her mouth with her hand to prevent the sobs from escaping.

Mary's frown grew, and she rose once more to her feet. "Well, we'll just have to get some more."

"But milady, there isn't—"

"I'm not talking about our meager medical supply cupboard. I'm talking about going into the village and fetching a few more things…including medicine from the hospital."

Anna stared at her, and even Mary was surprised by the determined words she had spoken. But she wasn't going to let Anna sit there and blame herself for such a silly little accident, nor was she going to stand by while Anna had to sit and watch her beloved suffer another day. _At least one of us shouldn't have to suffer like that,_ she found herself thinking.

Anna rose to her feet, wiping the residue of her tears away, her eyes wide with what could only be described as hope. "Are you serious, milady?"

Mary lifted a brow at this. "Of course I am! I'm like Granny in that regard; I rarely say things just to be humorous." She couldn't help but smile as a warm smile of relief began to spread across the housemaid's face. "If Capt. Crawley can gallivant across the countryside with the new chauffeur, then they can stop in the village to gather supplies along the way. And I will go right now to speak with him about it," she reached over and took Anna's hand once more, her voice low but her gaze determined. "I promise you, Anna; you won't have to watch Bates suffer without that drug for another night."

* * *

"You're bending your elbows again…"

He bit his lip to keep from smiling as he heard yet another frustrated groan escape her lips.

"It's important to keep your arms straight," he instructed.

Sybil Crawley turned and gave him a scowl. "I know that; you've been saying that over and over ever since we started!"

"Because you keep bending your elbows," he countered, his eyes dancing as her scowl darkened. He never thought he would find something like teaching a lady how to hold, aim, and fire a pistol so entertaining. "Would you um…would you like some help?"

"No!" Sybil spat with irritation, before turning her attention back to the make-shift target she had helped him create. He held his hands up as a sign of peace; perhaps it wasn't wise to goad her while she carried a loaded gun?

Indeed, Sybil Crawley liked to do things her way…and while in some people, this could come across as stubborn and pig-headed, in Sybil…he found it admirable. No, despite her beauty, she wasn't a delicate flower, not at all.

Tom was reminded of how…unique…Lady Sybil was, when she volunteered to show him how to get to the petrol station. Falling into his "role", he went to go and open the door for her to get into the car, and he moved to open the back door. However, not only did she open her own door…but she opened the passenger door—_to the front seat_.

"What?" she had asked when he gaped at her for a moment. She was settling in her seat and waiting for him. "You are aware that the driver sits here, aren't you Branson?" she teased, and he felt his face turn a deep crimson. However, he returned her smile, and decided that perhaps the best way to get his revenge for her cheeky statement, was to go a little faster than necessary down the drive that led off the grounds. Sybil squealed and for a brief moment, clung to his bicep as he turned the wheel to make a sharp turn. He laughed at her reaction, and she was giggling too…and then seemed to realize what she was holding onto, and quickly released him.

He followed her instructions, thankful that it was a simple route. It was difficult to both drive and be on the lookout for any Walkers that attempted to cross their path. Normally that was Matthew's job, and since Matthew had begun to help him with his search, they had only come across two Walkers. _"Two too many,"_ would have been what Kieran would have said, had he been there. _Oh Kieran…where are you? _He was trying to remain positive, recalling some instances like this in the past, where Kieran had disappeared for weeks, and then just turned back up—like a bad penny. He shouldn't be panicking, not yet at least. So a welcome distraction like taking the youngest daughter of his so-called "employer" for a drive was very, very welcome.

_It's not a drive, you idiot. You're getting petrol…and teaching her how to shoot. Not the sort of thing a man does when he takes a woman out._ But then again…a man like him would never take a girl like her out—not unless he had a death wish.

As soon as he had parked the car, Sybil was practically leaping out, looking at him expectantly. "What should my target be?" she asked, her voice light and eager.

He couldn't help but laugh at her exuberance. "First, let me fill these tins, then we'll get to your shooting lesson."

She groaned and rolled her eyes, which only made him laugh harder. She didn't sit and sulk, however, she reached into the boot and took out the tins he had been referring to. He had found several tin containers in the garage used for holding and collecting petrol. He brought as many as he could find, because he wanted to make sure they had a healthy supply back at the big house. In times like these, one needed to be more than prepared for anything.

"Wait…" he whispered, as Sybil began carrying two containers towards the station's pumps. She had told him that she suspected the station to be abandoned. No one had visited it since their last chauffeur was alive, and that had been well over a month ago. Still…there was a difference between a place being abandoned by people…and abandoned by the living. He lifted his rifle, and carefully approached the station, his hand telling Sybil to stay behind him. Despite the stubbornness he had seen her display, thank heaven she listened to him now. He approached the station's doors…and peered through the dusty, dirty windows. The place was an absolute mess, and it looked as if there were a few rats inside, eating whatever remained of the station's items. But no sign of people…or Walkers. "Let me do a quick check around the perimeter," he told her. "Just wait there…" With his rifle still at the ready, he began to walk around the building, his eyes and ears on red alert for any unusual sights or sounds that could indicate a Walker. There were some flies buzzing…and he soon found out why, making a face as he saw what remained of…something. Not a person, but…he wasn't sure if it was a cat or a rabbit or a squirrel, but whatever it was, it was dead and had been dead from the look of it for several days. But he recognized the teeth marks on it, and the way the organs had been ripped out and partially left behind. _A Walker did this,_ he thought. And that Walker may still be out there…

Sybil's scream ripped through the air.

Tom whipped his head around, the sound chilling his blood, and bolted back to where he had left her.

"Get away! Get away!"

Oh God, the Walker was back, the Walker had her, and she didn't know how to use a gun! He burst around the corner, his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot—

Sybil had jumped up onto the stand that the pump rested upon, one hand clinging to the pump while the other swung a tin container down around the stand's base…trying to ward off two fat rats that seemed to be taunting her.

"Get away!" she grunted again, and then looked up and saw him staring at her, his rifle lowered, but his arms and fingers trembling. "Branson, help!"

And before he knew it…the bubble of laughter that had been buried deep within his chest rose up and burst out.

She glared at him. "It's not funny!"

He couldn't get a hold of himself, he just kept laughing.

She huffed and for some reason, that made him laugh even more. "Stop it!" she shouted, stamping her foot for extra measure, which nearly caused her to lose her balance. She gripped the pump tighter and for the briefest moment, looked like a frightened child. The sight caused his heart to melt, and he managed to swallow the remaining chuckles, and quickly moved to where she was, shooing the rats away.

"They're gone, milady."

If looks could kill, he would be twice dead. "I'm glad my distress provided you with great entertainment," she snapped.

"I'm just surprised," he confessed, trying to look innocent. "The great and brave Sybil Crawley…who nearly beat a Walker to death with a simple tree branch…is afraid of rats."

"Oh shut up!" she grumbled, and once again, he found himself having to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He moved then to her side to help her down from the pump stand, but that stubborn pride he had caught glimpses of earlier was coming back in full force. "I can help myself down, thank you very much," she muttered.

"I don't mind—"

"Well I do! I—"

She was too busy trying to tell him off, that she nearly lost her footing and would have fallen and landed, hard, on her backside…_if_ he hadn't caught her.

They both seemed to freeze as his arms came around her, one around her waist, the other under hear knees, her hands gripping his shoulders from the suddenness of the fall…and both staring at one another…their breath seeming to have stopped, as if they had forgotten how to breathe…but her face was terribly close to his…and his heartbeat was ringing in his ears.

_What are you doing, Tommy?_ Kieran's voice was ringing loud in his head. _Don't let yourself go there, Tommy, you know better!_

"I…thank you," she murmured, her voice a little breathy. It brought him out of his stupor, and he quickly put her down, his own face growing hot from the encounter.

"I…I best be getting these filled," he murmured, bending down and picking up the containers. "While I do, why don't you, um…find some tin cans or…or something, and set them up on that fence post over there," he pointed in the distance, before busily taking the containers and getting to work.

What was his problem? He wasn't usually this…tongue-tied around a girl. Of course whenever he was nervous, he tried to cover that by sounding "over-confident", which usually landed him in hot water. And perhaps that was what was happening here, as well? He was letting himself…think things…that he shouldn't. Especially about a girl like _Lady_ Sybil Crawley.

The pump still worked, thank heaven, and he managed to fill enough to refuel the Rolls-Royce, as well as four additional containers he had brought. He had brought six in total, but Sybil was getting rather anxious by this point. "Can't we start?" she groaned, reminding him a little of his sisters, who looked that way when it came to opening presents on Christmas morning, but were told to wait until their mam was up.

"Alright," he sighed, more for show than anything else. He couldn't help but admire her eagerness to learn; he couldn't help but admire…her, full stop.

"Let's start with the pistol," he suggested.

Sybil frowned. "What about the rifle?"

"Pistol first," Tom advised. Sybil made a face, but shrugged her shoulders. He grinned at her when she wasn't looking.

"Alright," he came up and took the pistol from his belt where it was strapped. "Now, have you ever held one before?"

"Of course I have!"

He lifted a doubting eyebrow. "Really?"

"I…well…I once handed a pistol to an officer back when Downton was a convalescent home…" her voice trailed off, because she knew this wasn't what he had meant. Still, he couldn't help but smile at her.

"Well, the first thing you need to know is how to remove and set the safety…" he explained, demonstrating for her. She nodded her head, and upon resetting the safety, handed her the gun. "Now, it may feel a little heavy—"

"It's not _that_ heavy," she insisted, and then copying what he had done, removed the safety and pointed it towards one of the tin cans she had set on the fence post.

"Use both hands to hold it," he instructed.

"Shouldn't I practice with one? It's more likely that I'll only have one hand free—"

"Do you _always_ try to rush things?" he asked, a chuckle in his voice as he looked down at her. Her skin turned pink once more, and Tom couldn't help but feel his heart beat a little faster, admiring the color.

"I'm a fast learner," she stated, a grin spreading across her face…and Tom suddenly felt his knees go weak at the double-meaning in her words. Not that she meant anything by them, of course. But…still, his imagination couldn't help but wander…

"Well…" he began, clearing his throat to try and keep his voice at its usual level. "Right now, let's stick to basics. Hold the pistol in both hands…" she did so, her fingers wrapping around the pistol's handle, her grip from what he could tell was quite firm. "Good…now…raise your arms and point the pistol at its target…" She did so, but right away he saw a problem. "No, you need to keep your arms straight—"

"But they are straight—"

"No, you're bending them," he pointed to her elbows. "Lock your arms, like this," he demonstrated, holding his out next to her.

Sybil frowned. "Does it really matter?"

"It matters a great deal if you want to hit your target."

She sighed, and turned her attention back to the tin can in question. She lifted the pistol in front of her and tried to keep it steady…but he could see that she was struggling a bit. The pistol, while nowhere near as heavy as the rifle that was currently resting at his feet, was by no means a light object, either. It was an older model, and certainly would feel heavy and odd to someone who had never held a gun like it before. She bit her lip…and then wrapped her finger around the trigger, and squeezed.

"OH!" she gasped, stumbling back a little from the power of the pistol's blast. Thankfully, he had been standing just behind her, because she stumbled back into him. She gasped again, but his hands were there to catch her shoulders and keep her steady. She was blushing furiously and he was trying very hard to suppress his own grin.

"Not bad…" he murmured, releasing her shoulders, although reluctantly. "I think the bullet hit the tree to the left…"

She frowned and turned her head to look at him. "That tree is only a foot away from the fence post!" she muttered. "I think I did very well for my first time."

Even though he knew he shouldn't, especially since she held a loaded weapon, he couldn't help but chuckle. "You did alright, I'll grant you that." She began to sputter, but the sounds died in her throat when hands lifted to her back, and he pressed a palm between her shoulder blades. "Good…" he murmured. "Keep your posture steady; that will help…" A voice (Kieran's probably) began to shout warnings in his head. He told that voice to more or less "sod off". "And straighten your arms…" Despite the warnings that were ringing in his head…he found his hands now running down the length of her arms, stopping at her elbows. "Don't bend them…" he whispered, his mouth near her ear. God, he could smell her hair. It was a heavenly scent…

"Like this?" she whispered, her voice sounding…breathy. Like when she had thanked him for catching her. He swallowed the rather uncomfortable lump in his throat. It wasn't the only place he was feeling uncomfortable, but that was the last thing he wanted to draw her attention to.

"Aye," he murmured, and keeping his hands firm at her elbows. "Now…keep your eyes locked on your target…" he instructed. "And when you're ready…fire."

There was a pause after he spoke. A heart beat. And then a blast.

Birds that were in the trees scattered…and the tin can Sybil had been aiming for…fell to the ground.

"I did it…"

Tom was staring at the fallen can as well, just as dumbfounded as Sybil.

"I did it!" Sybil laughed, turning around and facing him, grinning brightly and proudly.

"Yes…you did…" he murmured, still amazed. Even when Kieran taught him how to shoot, he hadn't struck the can on the second try. Still, her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself grinning down at her—and only then realized that he still, in a sense, had his arms around her.

Sybil seemed to realize this too…and for several seconds, they stood frozen, facing each other, rather like how they had been when he caught her falling from the filling pump.

He was the first to move, dropping his arms and taking a step back. "Well done, milady," he congratulated with a forced smile, once again using the words that would remind the both of them of their…social divides.

Sybil's own smile, however, fell right away, and she looked down at the pistol in her hands. "No…no, 'not well done'," she sighed, disappointment clear in her voice.

Tom was confused. "Milady?"

Sybil shook her head and turned around to face the fence, where a few other cans remained. "I didn't hit it…"

He frowned. What did she mean she didn't hit it? He was there; he saw the bullet knock the can right off the fence! "I don't understand—"

"Oh Branson, it's obvious!" Sybil sighed, a sound of annoyance in her voice. He didn't care for that tone, partially because he wasn't sure if it was directed at him. "_I_ didn't hit that can…_you_ did!"

His frown deepened. "Me?"

She nodded. "In a sense, yes. You had to…to show me how to hold the pistol…and…and…and your hands were on my arms—"

"It was _you_ who pulled the trigger," he reminded her, forcing himself to ignore the pretty blush that was growing pinker by the second.

"But you still had to _help_ me," she insisted. "And I'm tired of having other people help me. I don't want to depend upon someone else to save my life! I don't want to someone else to suffer because of me! I…" her voice trailed off and Tom was staring at her with wide eyes, filled with concern. In that short moment, she went from someone sounding stubborn to someone sounding…heartbroken.

She turned away from him then, and lifted the pistol, and without a word of warning, fired the gun, the blast coming nowhere near the target that had been set up. She gritted her teeth and lifted the gun again, firing once more…and still, nothing.

"Milady—"

She fired a third time.

"Milady!"

A fourth.

"Sybil!"

She paused…partially because she was out of bullets. But she was also shaking, and Tom realized…there were tears staining her pink cheeks. She kept trying to fire the pistol, but of course it was no use, the gun had nothing left. With a groan, she threw it down on the ground and marched over to the fence, immediately getting to work, trying to find the bullets she had fired and see if they were salvageable.

He watched her, a deep frown on his face, and his eyes full of concern. "Milady…" he began softly. "I have no doubt that you can do this; consider my help a simple demonstration, and nothing more." He went over to where she was, kneeling on the ground beside her. She had paused in her search, listening to his words, but she kept her face away, as if she didn't want him to see her tears…as if she were ashamed of them.

_"Please don't ever feel you have to hide from me…"_ he wanted to say to her. _"I'll never think less of you; I'll never think you weak or incapable. You're the bravest woman I've ever met!"_

But he didn't. He kept his mouth closed on the matter, and simply retrieved the can she had hit, and placed it once more on the fence post.

"Come on, let's try again."

"I need to find the missing bullets," she sniffed, keeping her head to the ground.

"I have more, milady," he dug a handful out of his pocket, but Sybil shook her head.

"No, I know how scarce such things are—we need to salvage as many as we can—"

"Alright," he agreed, reaching out and touching her shoulder. She paused in her search once more, and slowly lifted her eyes to his, and he thought his heart missed a beat as he gazed back into her beautiful, clear blue eyes. Bluer than the sky over his beloved Dublin. "We'll look for them later," he promised. "But right now, how about we try one more round…six more bullets," he explained. "And I'll stand over here, and observe, but it will be all up to you in hitting your target, alright?"

She sniffed and quickly wiped her cheeks, before nodding her head and putting on a smile. "Thank you, Branson," she murmured, before taking the six bullets he offered from the palm of his hand. "Of course, you do realize you'll have to teach me how to load a pistol as well?"

He grinned and nodded his head. "Then let that be your next lesson, milady."

And so here they were.

Sybil was improving since the last time. She had fired three shots, all on her own as he knew she would prefer, but she wasn't having any luck hitting her targets. She was getting annoyed, and by the time she fired her fourth, she looked ready to throw a curse to the wind.

That was when he attempted to offer her some aid, reminding her to keep her arms straight, to not bend her elbows, all from where he stood, of course. However, his advice was doing little to help calm her frustrations. And even though he was trying so hard not to grin at the way she grumbled, or kicked some stones with boots, he couldn't help himself. He found that he admired her for many reasons—and it was practically impossible not to find her…adorable, at times. Of course, he would never tell her that, whether she held a loaded gun or not.

"I'm going to get this one," she vowed, lifting the pistol and planting her feet firmly on the ground, adopting a stance he had noticed earlier, one leg in front of the other to help keep her balance.

"That's what you said about the last three," he teased. He couldn't help it.

She glared at him from the corner of her eye. "It's not wise to tease a woman holding a pistol, Branson."

"Quite right, milady, my apologies."

"Save your apologies," she muttered. "What you can do, when I hit that can, is show me how to use the rifle."

He cocked an eyebrow at this. "You don't give up, do you?"

"I told you, I'm a fast learner."

He chuckled. "You hit that can, _and_ the one next to it with the last bullet, then yes, I will teach you how to shoot with the rifle."

She grinned at this and turned back to the fence, straightening her arms and muttering encouraging incoherent words under her breath. He too was leaning close, watching her posture, watching her arms, watching the determination on her face. _Come on…come on, you can do this…_

She pulled the trigger…

And the can fell to the ground.

"I DID IT!" she shouted, dropping the pistol in her excitement and literally jumping up and down in happy amazement. "I DID IT ALL BY MYSELF!"

He was laughing, admiring her moment of victory. He had thought it before, and he knew it was true. Everything about Lady Sybil Crawley was most infectious. "Congratulations, milady," he grinned.

She returned the grin and then bent down to retrieve the pistol. "Watch, Branson, I'll do it again!"

He chuckled and nodded his head. Even if she didn't, he couldn't imagine not trying to teach her the very basics of how to at least hold the rifle…

…Which would mean having to stand behind her…_again_…with his arms around her, so to speak…

He swallowed and tried to tell his body to calm down.

"Branson!" she called, drawing his attention back. "Watch, I'll hit that can on the right!"

He turned his head to watch the very can to which she pointed, his mind still telling his body to behave, while his eyes focused on her target…and then grew wide, as a Walker came crashing through the trees towards them.


	15. Action

_**ATTENTION ALL "DA&Z" FANS, READERS, & FOLLOWERS**-Downton Abbey & Zombies will be going on a "brief" hiatus during the month of December. I hope to write at least 2 more chapters before taking that hiatus, and will try to get the next one out *before* the weekend. Why the hiatus? I've been bitten by the "Christmas muse" and will be writing a modern AU holiday story based off one of my favorite Christmas movies: "Love Actually". It will be a multi-ship story, so fans from across the fandom, (M/M, A/B, R/C, CC/EH, S/T, W/D, etc.) will find something (hopefully!) to love! So please, stay tuned for that! BUT THAT BEING SAID...don't worry, Downton Abbey & Zombies *will* continue in the new year. Keep checking my profile page for updates if you're not a follower of the story, to find out when._

_ZOMBIE-FIGHTING ACTION AHEAD! Plus someone gets punched...who could it be? Just read to find out! ;o) THANKS AGAIN to all the amazing readers and reviewers! I love hearing from you, and I apologize for not answering each review-that will be my new years resolution to do a better job with that. But please, continue to leave comments and share your thoughts. Thanks again for reading and hope you enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter Fifteen_

"**Action"**

Time had frozen in that moment.

One second she was laughing and giddy, so proud for having hit her first target entirely on her own—and the next she was staring in horror at the creature who seemed to have quite literally come from nowhere.

The Walker stumbled forward, meeting her eyes and Sybil's widened even more as she stared back into its dead, glazed expression. But not so dead to not recognize "food" before it.

"SYBIL!"

Branson was shouting her name. He had been standing but a short distance away from her, watching her as she tried to shoot the tin cans on the fence post, instructing her on how to hold the pistol. Now he was running towards her, grabbing his rifle and releasing the safety.

The Walker was practically atop her. She could either scream for help…or do what she was training herself to do.

So she did.

The gun's blast echoed and birds overhead scattered.

Time froze again in that moment as the Walker's head whipped back from the explosion of the gun's blast. But the bullet had met its target…and the creature fell to the ground…while its blood splattered over Sybil's face.

Her mouth fell open, gasping in shock, as if someone had just dumped a bucket of freezing water atop her head…or tossed it in her face, rather.

Branson was by her side then, the rifle now pointed at the motionless creature, looking ready to empty every last bullet into the beast's head. Despite the shock of what had just happened, Sybil reached forward and gripped Branson's arm. "No, don't waste the bullets," she urged. He looked up at her, his face pale and his eyes wide with panic. She squeezed his arm, wanting to reassure him it was alright, although she could only imagine how horrifying she must look. "It's dead; I know it is—I'm positive this time."

He was breathing heavy and looked back down at the Walker. Indeed, it had stopped twitching. With the end of the rifle, Branson nudged it, his muscles still tense, his fingers still ready to pull the trigger in case…but the Walker didn't move.

Sybil let out a long, shaky breath. She had done it. She had KILLED it!

"I did it…" she whispered, awe washing over her. She had not only defended herself, but another person as well! _This was for you Gwen…_

Branson looked up at her then, and he let out his own shaky breath. A smile of pure…relief…began to spread across his face, and a chuckle managed to escape from his lips. "Aye…that you did."

Sybil couldn't help but smile back, although she realized then that she was shaking all over. The adrenaline had been raging through her at the sight of the attacking Walker that she was still recovering from the shock and surprise. She also remembered the creature's blood that had spattered across her face. Lord, she must look like a fright! Branson seemed to have read her mind, and without asking, dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and gently brought it up to cheek and began to wipe the blood off her face.

The gesture took Sybil by surprise…perhaps more so than the sudden attack.

Indeed, even Branson seemed surprised by his action! He immediately paused, looking as if he was second-guessing himself.

A nervous laugh bubbled up from her throat; he too also chuckled, before turning bright red and looking down at his feet. "Sorry," he whispered, offering her the handkerchief to continue cleaning her face.

Sybil blushed and took the token, whispering her thanks as she finished cleaning herself. An awkward silence suddenly fell upon them. "I…" she paused, not sure what she was planning on say. "I…I can't believe I shot it!"

He looked up at her and she gave a bashful smile, biting her lip and feeling her cheeks grow redder. Why was Branson having such an effect on her? The man, in many ways, was still a stranger to her! _And yet he seems to understand you better than some of your own family members…_

He chuckled at her exuberance and nodded his head. "I can't deny, I was impressed."

"Oh?" she lifted a brow at his words. "So you thought I would miss?"

"It's easy to panic in a moment like that; an unexpected attack can throw anyone off, even the most skilled marksman."

She couldn't fault him for thinking that. "I suppose…" Her mind immediately flooded with images from the past. Images of attacks that did surprise, that did catch them off guard, that did…cause a great deal of panic.

"Milady?"

His voice brought back from those memories and she met his eyes. They were focused on…her left temple?

"Beggin' your pardon…" He didn't pause to explain himself. He simply took the handkerchief from her hand and brought it up to her temple to gently wipe the blood that she had failed to clean. Another awkward moment passed between them, and Sybil wondered if he could hear the rapid beating of her heart? "You know…my mam had an excellent way to clean us up if we had any dirt on our faces."

"Oh?"

He nodded his head and pulled the handkerchief away. "Aye; she would spit into her handkerchief before proceeding to 'clean' our faces." He then lifted the handkerchief towards his lips and made a face as if he were going do just that.

"NO!" Sybil gasped, her hand reaching out clutch his that was holding the handkerchief, a gesture to stop him from doing what it looked like he was doing. Branson burst out laughing and soon, Sybil was joining in his laughter as they playfully wrestled over the soiled handkerchief. Laughter seemed to be the best way to combat the horror that they had just witnessed.

However…Sybil's laughter suddenly died in her throat…as just behind Branson's shoulder, three more Walkers suddenly came into view. "Branson!" she hissed, and he swiftly turned to face the oncoming danger. He cocked the rifle, raising it to aim at their oncoming attackers…which began as three…and were now five…and then nine…

"Get in the car," he hissed over his shoulder.

She wanted to help, but now was not the time to argue such things. Besides, her pistol was out of bullets. Sybil turned to run back to the newly refueled Rolls-Royce—and froze after two steps.

More Walkers. They were coming from behind the petrol station, from beyond the nearby trees and meadow…and they were surrounding the car.

"Oh no…" she whispered, staring in horror as the numbers continued to grow.

Branson glanced over his shoulder at her words and let out what she could only assume was curse, muttered in his native Gaelic.

The car was surrounded.

_THEY_ were surrounded.

* * *

There was shouting coming from the library.

Well, perhaps the more accurate term would be "raised voices", but for a place like Downton, "raised voices" were considered shouting.

Mary approached the closed doors of the library with some trepidation. She had just come from the blue room where Bates' was resting, and had not only tried to comfort Anna from her distress, but had also promised her that Matthew and Branson would go into the village to find more morphine. Of course, promising such things was far easier than actually making them happen. And even if she were able to convince Matthew and the chauffeur to go into the village…what was to guarantee that their mission would be successful? She shook her head, and told herself to worry about that when the time came. Right now, she just needed to find Matthew and tell him what she had told Anna.

However, her footsteps stilled as she got closer and closer to the library. What on earth…?

"Robert, surely you see how imperative this is?"

"We have managed—_are managing_, very well!" Mary frowned at the sound of her father's voice. He seemed quite…agitated. "And as things stand—"

"As things stand you'll be dead in a fortnight!"

Mary gasped at the sound of Matthew's voice. Good heavens, she had never heard him speak in that tone before! Well, not quite. He had raised his voice like that to her in the past, but then again, so had she. Yes, she remembered their last…"heated conversation"…all too well. But never had she heard him speak to her father in such a way!

Apparently her father was also taken aback by Matthew's words. She could tell he was sputtering, trying to overcome the shock but also rising to the occasion. She imagined his face turning very red, ready to explode like a volcano. "Now see here!"

However, whatever her father was going to say was interrupted by another voice.

"Do not trouble yourself, Robert. Capt. Crawley isn't trying to insinuate anything, I'm sure—he's merely speaking out of concern."

Mary's eyes widened. _Sir Richard?_ What was he doing in there?

"We must keep in mind, of course, that Capt. Crawley is still…'new'…to this world; he hasn't had to deal with all these changes for as long as you or I have."

"I am a soldier in His Majesty's army!" Matthew retorted. "I have fought many battles in France, many BLOODY battles—I know what war looks like, sir, and that is what is happening right now—WE ARE AT WAR!"

"I will not deny that we are at war, sir," Sir Richard continued, his voice remaining firm and calm. "But as you said, you have fought in France and have seen many battles—many _different_ battles. The battles you fought during the War are nothing like the battles we have fought, here. These are not the Axis powers; there's no reasoning with these creatures. Had there been, you wouldn't have had to face the necessity of killing your old cook and valet—"

Mary's hand flew to her mouth as she heard the unmistakable sound of a fist meeting a jaw, followed by some scuffling of feet. "MATTHEW!" her father's voice rang out loud and clear, no doubt trying to pull the two men apart. Mary couldn't believe it…nor could she stand outside and listen to another word. Without any hesitation, she opened the door and stared at the sight of Matthew, trying to wrestle her fiancée to the ground, while her father was trying to pry him away. They all froze at looked up at her, each one blinking and suddenly resembling naughty school boys, caught red-handed by their governess.

"Good gracious…" she murmured, looking at each of them with deep frown of disapproval…especially Matthew.

"Yes, Mary, did your mother send you?" her father asked, the first to straighten his posture and trying to look like he had everything under control.

Mary shook her head, her eyes going back and forth between Matthew and Sir Richard. She knew her fiancée well enough; she knew that Sir Richard's true weapon wasn't his fists but his tongue. The man had a way with words and could easily manipulate them into fooling a person, not to mention insulting them in as "polite a way" as possible. But Matthew…what was his excuse? Matthew, who always praised a person for keeping a calm demeanor and cool head…there he was, right now, on his knees, trying to wrestle Sir Richard to the ground.

He released his hold on her fiancée and quickly brushed his hair back, slowly rising to his feet and trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt and once again return to "resembling" that calm man he always tried to be.

"I'm sorry you had to see this, my dear," Sir Richard apologized, now free from Matthew's grip, also straightening himself out and putting on a smile. Mary didn't return the smile, nor did she accept his proffered hand. Instead, she folded her arms and eyed the two of them with further disapproval. Sir Richard cleared his throat and continued to smile at her, despite the awkwardness that had now fallen upon the room since her arrival. "Is there something you wanted?"

She sighed and crossed the room to where her father kept the brandy decanter. She knew it wasn't "lady-like", but they were the last people to tell her what was considered "proper" behavior right now. "I understood you were having a meeting," she softly explained. "And I felt it important to be present."

All of the men seemed to frown at this, and Mary couldn't help but roll her eyes. Honestly; must everything in her life revolve around what the idiot men thought? "Please, don't let my presence stop you from whatever 'important business' you were clearly discussing." A look of shame momentarily crossed their features, and Mary had to admit, she enjoyed that.

Matthew squared his shoulders and looked at her, his expression quite serious. "What do you think about the idea that _everyone_ receives weapon training?"

Mary's eyes widened. Was _that_ what this is about? She glanced at her father and could clearly see his disapproval. The truth was, she had never really given the idea much thought. If and when she ever ventured outside, Carson was always nearby, ready to defend her if need be. And back when the danger was still fresh and new, she hadn't gone outside at all. In fact, it had been her role to keep everyone inside calm and collected. "I…" she looked once again at her father. She always felt that she was his strongest supporter, and more often than not, took his side on matters. She didn't want to disappoint him now. "I haven't given the idea much thought," she answered honestly.

Matthew frowned at this. "Oh come now, surely you—"

"My fiancée answered your question," Sir Richard interrupted. He came over to stand by her side, and she did her best to keep from stiffening at his impending touch on her shoulder.

Matthew's eyes narrowed and she could see how firm his jaw looked, no doubt clenching his teeth to keep from retaliating as he had done earlier.

A knock blessedly interrupted them, and without waiting for her father's response, called out to the person standing on the other side to enter, before taking a quick drink from her brandy glass. The door opened…and Mary was surprised to see William of all people, poke his head in.

"Yes?" her father answered, looking directly at William. "What is it?"

"I…" William paused, glancing at all of them, before looking at Matthew. "I…I…beggin' your pardon for interrupting, milord…" William stuttered nervously. "But…I…I understood that…that Capt. Crawley wanted to speak with you about some urgent matters in regards to…" he paused and swallowed what could only have been a nervous lump in his throat.

Matthew's attitude changed completely, and a great big smile spread across his face. "Not at all, Mason!" he grinned, calling William by his surname. Mary frowned a little at this, watching Matthew cross the library to clamp a hand on William's shoulder. "I'm glad you're here, because I think I'm outnumbered 3 to 1."

She frowned at this and fought hard to roll her eyes. _Oh Matthew, must EVERYTHING be black and white with you? _ Just because she hadn't immediately praised him for suggesting that all the women in the house learn how to use a gun didn't mean she was against him, for heaven's sake!

"Now see here," her father began. "Don't bully William into this—"

"I'm not bullying Pvt. Mason into anything," Matthew argued. "But as a solider and someone who has had to fight these things on a much more frequent basis than the rest of us, I think he may know a thing or two about the necessity for…preparedness."

"Now see here!" her father thundered. "You forget that _I_ too am a soldier—"

"I have not forgotten that!" Matthew retaliated. "Which is perhaps why I'm so amazed that you're against the idea!" His eyes met hers and Mary felt her breath catch at the intense way he was looking at her. "Don't you want your own daughters to know how to defend themselves with more than just…tree branches?"

"How dare you—"

"Robert, don't waste your breath," Sir Richard interceded, frowning at Matthew and squeezing her shoulder. Mary didn't care for the gesture any more than any of Sir Richard's other "possessive" gestures; for that was exactly how it felt—like he was trying to remind everyone in the room…including herself…that she…"belonged" to him.

"Capt. Crawley, I understand the need, the…desire…to want to protect your…" he glanced down at her and Mary felt her cheeks burn. "…Loved ones," he murmured, before lifting his eyes back to Matthew's. "But as you can see, we have managed quite well, for many, many, _many_ weeks, doing things as Robert sees fit," he smiled at her father before continuing. "All of us have managed to keep order and peace and protect those who are precious to us…" his hand squeezed her shoulder again. "And we have done so…_without_ your leadership."

Matthew glared at Sir Richard, who simply smiled. Mary knew that smile perhaps better than anyone; it reminded her of a snake, charming its prey back to his den…

"Well…" Matthew growled, turning his attention back to her father…and then to her. "If that is the general understanding…perhaps I should go?"

"What?" Robert gasped.

"Perhaps I would be at better service trying to find my mother than staying here and—"

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Mary groaned, surprising them all. "There's no need to be dramatic!"

Matthew's eyes bore into hers. "You think I'm overreacting?"

"I think ALL of you are overreacting!" she declared, shrugging Sir Richard's touch from her shoulder. "Honestly…I come in here and find you fighting like…like unruly children, and now each of you are digging your heels in and being stubborn and refusing to listen to sense and reason—" her eyes flashed between both Matthew and her fiancée. "—or refusing to see the other side. It's ridiculous!" She finished the rest of her brandy and marched over to the other side of the room, not wanting to look at any of them. Honestly; perhaps Sybil was right in her instance on equality between the sexes?

_ Sybil!_

Mary looked at Sir Richard, her eyes widening at the sudden realization that he wasn't where he had told her he would be, which was by her sister's side while she was outside, again. "Where's Sybil?" she asked, fear gripping her heart. "I thought you were watching her?" she tried to calm herself down. Sir Richard may be many things, but he was not irresponsible; he knew how precious her baby sister was to her, he would never leave her alone in harm's way.

And he hadn't. At least not in _that _sort of harm.

"She's perfectly fine," he reassured. "The chauffeur said he would keep an eye on her."

Mary paled at his words. Again and again, the bloody chauffeur!

"She's alone…with Branson?"

Sir Richard didn't seem to understand her growing distress. Nor did any of the other men, it seemed.

"Branson is a decent shot, that is true," her father reasoned. "And heaven knows how insisting she can be about going outside. At least with Branson, I know I don't have to worry about anything happening to her."

Mary only frowned.

"Tom's a good man," Matthew added, and Mary did everything she could to keep from groaning. _Tom_. Matthew insisted on calling Branson by his first name, as if…as if they were the same! "He'll keep her safe; I've no doubt about that."

Amazing. The one thing all three of them seemed to agree upon was the bloody chauffeur.

"Really, Mary, you don't need to worry," Matthew added, repeating the words that Sir Richard had said once to her not so long ago. "She couldn't be in more capable hands."

* * *

"GET DOWN!"

Sybil obeyed and immediately dropped to her knees, just as Branson lifted the rifle and fired at the Walker closest to where she was standing. The creature fell to the ground, another dead heap at her feet. And yet…it didn't seem to matter; they kept coming.

_Her joy for having succeeded in defending herself quickly melted when they both realized they were being surrounded. Good heavens, where had they all come from?_ _"The gunshots must have alerted them," Branson answered her thoughts. He reached forward and grabbed her wrist, pulling her close to him, looking frantically in all directions as the Walkers drew closer. "Shit!" he hissed. Sybil's eyes returned to the car and she understood why he had cursed. The car wasn't so far away that if they ran, they could make it; however, how would they fight off the horde of Walkers that were surrounding it?_

_"Give me some bullets!" she hissed under her breath._

_He looked at her as if she had told him to invite the Walkers home for tea._

_She nudged him with her elbow. "Do it!" she hissed again. "We're going to have to fight them, and you can't do it all on your own!"_

_His eyes held hers for a brief moment, and then he nodded his head, and dug his hand into his pocket, offering her as many bullets as he could. She didn't hesitate, she took them and stuffed them into her own pockets, before quickly trying to reload the pistol, just as he had taught her._

_"Remember…keep your arms straight," he growled, before turning and firing his rifle at a few oncoming Walkers._

_"Arms straight, arms straight…" she repeated over and over, trying to keep her fingers from shaking as she reloaded the pistol. "Arms straight, arms straight, arms straight!" she aimed at a Walker and fired. The bullet hit the creature, but not in the head._

_"Keep your eyes focused!" he shouted, firing again at a few more. "You can do this!"_

_"Eyes focused," she repeated. "Arms straight, eyes focused!" She could do this, she had hit a can but a few minutes ago, an object much smaller than that of a creature that was once human! Of course, the can hadn't been trying to eat her._

_She fired the pistol again…and this time, met her target. The Walker fell, only to be replaced by another oncoming monster._

_Now was not the time for victory dances. She turned the pistol and fired again, killing another Walker, and then another. She kept firing, sometimes missing, sometimes making her target, but she didn't stop until she had run out of bullets and was once again forced to reload._

And that was what she was doing now, on the ground, trying to reload her pistol while Branson fired overhead…and yet they kept coming.

"Damn it," he growled, checking the chamber of his gun. "I'm out…I need to reload."

Sybil nodded her head and told her hands to stop trembling and let her load her damn pistol! She was momentarily distracted by the sound of Branson's grunt, and looked up to see him using the butt of his rifle to smash the head of one of the attacking Walkers. "Hurry!" he shouted at her, as he tried to fend off another with his rifle. Sybil finally managed to get the gun loaded and was about to lift it to fire at a Walker that was quickly approaching Branson's left side, when she felt something grab her leg from the ground.

Her scream ripped through air, as a Walker who had fallen due to a previous shot to its leg, attempted to grip her ankle and take a bite.

Branson turned and with the butt of his rifle, smashed it into the skull of the Walker. Sybil turned her head and saw the Walker he had been fighting just before coming to her rescue, reaching out to grab him and bite his shoulder. She aimed her pistol and fired straight into the Walker's forehead, and the creature crumpled to the ground, joining the other bodies.

Branson looked down and then turned back to her. "I'll thank you for that when we're away from this place."

"Agreed!" she turned and fired her pistol at another Walker while he quickly tried to reload his rifle. He cursed and Sybil had a horrible feeling she knew why.

"I only have six bullets left," he groaned.

She didn't know how many she had in own pockets, but as she fired her gun again, she knew it wasn't enough to keep this horde from attacking.

"We can't keep doing this," he muttered as he loaded the remaining bullets to his rifle. "We need to get to the car and get back to Downton; that's the only way to escape."

Sybil nodded her head but looked at the car, counting the number of Walkers that surrounded it and…God in heaven, climbing over it. "How? How can we—"

Branson's grunt once again turned her attentions back to the Irishman and she watched in bewildered amazement as he gritted his teeth and wrestled one of the fence posts out where he had set the tin cans for her to shoot at, out of the ground. The man had powerful hands…and Sybil felt her face grow hot as she watched them pull the fence post free. _Oh for heaven's sake, now is NOT the time!_

He returned to her side with the newly acquired fence post and thrust it in her hands. "Remember what you did with that tree branch?"

She nodded her head, a dreaded feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. "Good," he growled, turning his attentions back to the Walkers surrounding the Rolls-Royce. "Because that's how we're going to get the car back."

With a mighty roar, Branson turned and raised the rifle butt over his head, smashing it against the skull of one Walker, before swinging it at another. The pistol would be no use in such close combat; Sybil realized that now. And she couldn't let him take this horde on alone. With a fierce battle cry, all her own, Sybil took hold of the fence post and joined the fray, swinging right and left, smashing skulls and punching Walkers right along Branson's side.

The end of the post that had been in the ground had a sharpened spike end to it. Sybil didn't hesitate to use that end, stabbing one Walker up through the chin, into the head. It made a sickening sound and the smell was even worse, but Sybil bit lip and forced the nausea down as she continued fighting.

_Remember your training, _she reminded herself._ Remember your anatomy classes from nursing school. The soft parts of the skull…it will be easier to penetrate and destroy the brain from stabbing the soft parts! _ Thankfully, it seemed that the skull of a Walker was more fragile than that of a living person—perhaps because the Walker wasn't truly alive and deteriorating? She didn't know the answer, but she didn't care. She fought her next target, roaring just as Branson had done, as she plunged the fence post through the creature's open mouth…and tried to twist it upwards, to destroy the brain.

She had succeeded in killing the beast. But the fence post was now stuck.

"No…" she gasped, trying to wrench the fence post free. "No, no, no, NO!"

Another Walker was fast approaching. It opened its mouth and made a strange groaning sound, it's tongue hanging out like that of a dog, eager to feast on her flesh. She dropped the fence post and removed the pistol from her pocket, firing it straight into her attacker's face.

Branson wrestled himself free from the Walker he was fighting and swiftly dug his own hand into his own pocket, before tossing the keys to the Rolls-Royce. "START THE CAR!" he shouted, before resuming his fight.

Sybil stared at him with wide eyes. _Start the car?_ She had never been behind the wheel of a motor before, let alone started one! How on earth…?

"NOW!"

She didn't hesitate a moment longer. She dove forward, her pistol ready, shooting at a Walker that was trying to climb inside. Damn the car for having no top! She didn't kill the creature, merely caused it to stumble back, but it was enough for her to take the keys Branson had given her and plunge them into the ignition, as she had seen him do. Now what? _Turn the keys? Or do I release the break lever?_ She should have paid more attention to Pratt when he drove the car. Of course, she never imagined herself ever being behind the wheel, much less being behind the wheel while a mass of flesh-eating monsters were attacking! _Turn the keys; turn the keys_, a voice in her head kept repeating. She did as the voice told her, and a great gasp of relief escaped her lungs as the engine roared to life. The sound momentarily stunned the Walkers, but still they kept coming. One tried to lean over her and bite her arm, but she took the butt of her pistol and hit the Walker soundly on head, causing it to stumble backwards as well. Release the lever, the voice that had told her to turn the keys next commanded. She tried to move it…but the lever wouldn't budge. _No, no, this is how you get the car to move, I know that! Why isn't it moving? Oh God, is it broken? No, no, no…_

"PUT YOUR FOOT ON THE CLUTCH!" Branson shouted, wrestling a Walker away with his rifle, before turning and firing it at right in the open mouth of another. "PRESS YOUR FOOT DOWN AND RELEASE THE LEVER!"

She saw the pedal to which he had mentioned…or rather, two pedals. Which one was it?

"THE LEFT!"

Either he was a mind reader or he could tell she was struggling to understand. Either way, she pressed her boot down, hard, on the left pedal and moved the lever…and the car jerked forward!

"I did it," she whispered, grinning from ear to ear that she had gotten the car out of park. "Branson! I did—OH!"

Her other foot had come down on the other pedal, the one on her right, and the car jerked forward again, rather haphazardly.

Branson blasted at another Walker and then turned and ran towards the now moving car. The Walkers were now interested in the moving motor more so than in himself. Sybil was trying to get a hold of the wheel, trying to keep the car from swerving so much, but just when she managed to get the car from going one way, it would jerk towards the other. Thankfully, it was managing to hit and push several Walkers out of the way, giving him room to run towards it and make a flying leap without any oncoming attackers, and that's exactly what he did…landing with a loud crash in the backseat.

Sybil turned her head, drawing her pistol, but Branson grabbed hold of her wrist before she could fire. "It's me!" he stated, his eyes finding hers and Sybil let out a great sigh, happy to see him there and not some intruding Walker. However, a Walker did just try to climb in, and she turned her pistol towards the monster, shooting it square in the face.

"Good shot!" Branson applauded, before kicking the Walker's carcass out of the motor. "Now if you don't mind?"

Sybil nodded her head and gladly moved out of the way, letting Branson climb to the front and take control of the car. As soon as he did, he pressed his trained feet down, hard, on the clutch and gas, and the car began speeding ahead, hitting and running over two Walkers that didn't get out of the way. Sybil turned around and watched as the remaining Walkers who had been chasing them grew smaller and smaller as more and more distance was put between them and the petrol station where they were. Only when Branson couldn't see any reflected in the rear-view mirror…did he begin to slow down.

The car finally came to a stop, and she continued clinging to the seat she was riding in, her eyes scanning the road behind them, and the forest around them, looking every which way, the slightest noise causing her to jerk her head in the direction she heard it. She nearly yelped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw Branson looking at her…his own chest rising and falling with deep, shaky breaths, just like hers. They stared at each other for a long, long time…and then slowly…smiles of relief broke out on their faces.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline still pumping through their veins? Or the fact that they both had just faced death and fought it, more or less, with their bare hands? Or perhaps it was the joy of escaping and living to see another day? Whatever the reason, Sybil didn't care. She let out a long, shaky sigh of happiness, as she suddenly felt Branson's strong, muscular arms enfold her in a tight, desperate hug. A hug that she returned, just as tightly.

"It's alright, it's alright…" he reassured, his voice trying to sound soothing. Sybil wasn't sure if he was saying more for her, or himself. Perhaps for them both? She couldn't help but smile and pressed her face into his shoulder, breathing in his masculine scent, while blushing a little as his hands ran up and down her back, one tangling in her hair and cradling her head against him. Yes, it was improper, she knew—but then so was fighting and killing fleshing eating monsters with a fence post.

She felt her head being pulled away from his shoulder, and he was cupping her face, his eyes looking all over her, his thumbs and fingers moving across her cheeks, her temples, her chin, the sides of her neck, all the way down to her shoulders, before rising back up to hold her face. Was he searching for injuries? "I'm fine," she blushed, putting on a smile even though her heart was still racing at a rapid pace. "Truly…I'm…I'm alright."

He paused and looked into her eyes, before letting out a deep breath and showing his own relieved smile. "Of course, I…forgive me," he stammered, his hands loosening their hold, but only slightly. His fingers remained…and the truth was, Sybil didn't mind. "Lord…your father is going to have my hide."

Sybil could only imagine how she looked. No doubt her appearance was ten times worse than before. She didn't have to look down at her dress to know it was splattered in blood and no doubt past all hope of being restored. Still…she couldn't stop smiling. _I did it, Gwen, did you see? I fought them, I defended myself, and I held my ground!_ Yes, of course Branson had helped, and she knew she wouldn't have been able to survive without his help. But the point was, she hadn't stood by like a helpless victim; no, not this time. And with God as her witness, never again, either. No one was ever going to fight her battles for her, not while there was still breath in her lungs.

She reached up and placed her hands on top of Branson's, which were still cupping her face. He lifted his eyes to meet hers again, and she smiled back, squeezing his hands. "Don't worry," she reassured. "He'll skin us both."

Branson threw his head back and laughed, and Sybil giggled beside him. They were both grinning like a pair of fools at one another…and then the grins began to fade…as their eyes looked back and forth between one another…and their laughing lips.

Branson suddenly released her and began to cough, turning his head slightly as if to cover his mouth. Sybil pursed her lips together and quickly began to smooth her blood stained skirt, as if trying to free it from wrinkles. _I barely know him…what's gotten into me? _The adrenaline, she kept reminding herself. Wasn't this something her teachers had taught her when she was training? How easy it was to become "caught in the moment" after surviving great trauma? Yes, surely that was what it was. They had both fought together, they had both survived death together! Surely that was where this sudden burst of emotion had come from?

Branson cleared his throat and resumed his driving; once again, the car was moving, on the way back to Downton. "I don't know what I fear more," he murmured after a brief silence. "Facing a horde of Walkers…or your father's wrath."

Sybil wished she could make a joke like she had done earlier, but her mind was wrapped up in other things. And she began to think about the Walkers they had just fought. What will happen to them now? Where would they go? And where on earth had they all come from? She bit her lip as she thought about the peaceful solitude the house and grounds had been under over the past month. That peace would soon be over...and they needed to be ready.

An invasion was coming…


	16. Compromise

_Here it is! I promised a mid-week update and I delivered! WHOO HOO! But please take note the next chapter will be the "mid-season finale" so to speak, before the story goes on "holiday" for the holidays. That should be posted by Sunday at the latest. ALSO, if you've enjoyed this story, I hope you will read my upcoming Christmas fic, a modern Downton AU with elements from "Love Actually". That story *will* be multi-ship, so no matter which couple you're a fan of in the Downton universe, hopefully you'll find something to enjoy!_

_BUT, back to the zombies ;o) Thanks to everyone who reads and subscribes, and a special big thanks to those that leave comments! It's always fun to hear reader's reactions (and speculations!) so please leave a comment! Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter Sixteen_

"**Compromise"**

Her father was fuming.

Never, in all her life, had she seen him this upset. He was so angry he couldn't stand still; he kept pacing back and forth, pausing and opening his mouth to say something, before running a frustrated hand through his hair and resuming his pacing.

Edith bit her lip as she watched the entire scene play out. They were in Sybil's room, and Sybil was sitting on the edge of the bed, closely resembling their father, looking agitated and ready to fight as well. Their mother was sitting next to Sybil, holding one of her hands and gently stroking it, as if trying to calm her down. Mary was on the other side of Sybil, but unlike their mother, had her hands folded in her lap and was looking down at the ground. She simply stood in the corner, her arms folded around herself as she waited for someone to say something…

He was muttering under his breath. Edith couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but judging by the vicious looks he was sending her baby sister, she had a feeling it wasn't good.

"Robert…" her mother sighed. "Perhaps we should simply leave Sybil be—"

"Oh no, Cora," he grunted, finally speaking up since learning the truth about what Sybil had been up to that afternoon. "If we leave her be, who knows what she'll get up to…or what havoc she will bring upon this house!"

Edith winced at this and knew what was going to happen next. Sybil sprang to her feet and glared at him. _"Havoc?"_ she barked back at him. "You haven't seen the havoc I am capable of doing if you think—"

"Sybil, please!" her mother hissed, trying to calm the youngest Crawley down, but Edith knew it was too late. Sybil was a fighter, and always had been. And her methods of fighting were not the same as Mary, who would stand in cold silence and calculate her next move; no, Sybil was more like their father; a firecracker waiting to explode if its fuse was lit.

"HOW DARE YOU!" her father shouted, his eyes wide and angry. "HOW DARE YOU DISOBEY ME! When I have told you time and again to not—"

"The car needed petrol!" Sybil shouted back. "He didn't know where the station was so I offered to show him!"

"BY YOURSELF?" he countered, both hands rising to his hair. Edith swore she thought he was going to pull it out.

"I was perfectly safe!"

"SAFE!" her father growled. "YOU CALL COMING BACK HERE, LOOKING LIKE…" he motioned his hands towards Sybil's soiled dress and unbound hair. "…YOU CALL THAT 'SAFE'?"

Edith bit her lip and hugged her arms tighter around herself. She had been the one who had seen Sybil return with the chauffeur; she had been the one to alert everyone that Sybil was back…when none of them were even aware that she had left the grounds. And it was she, who had pointed out that Sybil was covered in blood.

Yes, it would be a very long time before her little sister forgave her.

"Yes," Sybil countered, lifting her chin and looking defiant. "I fought, Papa, I defended myself, and Branson—"

"Oh, Branson," her father growled. "Carson was clearly right about him; he leaves tonight—I don't want him staying another day in this house!"

Edith's eyes widened in shock at her father's threat. While she hadn't interacted with the new chauffeur very much, certainly not since the night he mysteriously arrived to save Sybil's life, she didn't think he was a bad man. And she certainly didn't think he deserved to be thrown to the wolves—or in this case, the Walkers, in the middle of the night.

Sybil stared at their father, her own eyes wide and her face growing redder by the second. Edith braced herself, preparing for the eruption that was sure to come…

But rather, her sister walked right up to their father, until she was only a few inches away from him, and she hissed low and deep, "If you punish Branson…if you send him away…I'm warning you…"

Their father made a scoffing sound, and Edith inwardly groaned. That was not the correct response.

"Warning me?"

"Yes," Sybil growled. "Because he won't be the _only one_ leaving."

"SYBIL!" her mother hissed, but Sybil ignored her. Even Mary looked stunned by their sister's threat. Yes, the threat to "run away from home" was petulant and sort of thing a child would threaten. But Edith knew that out of all of them…Sybil would do it, if she felt there was injustice. And clearly, in the short span of him being here…her baby sister had grown some sort of "attachment" with the chauffeur. But that was just so…like Sybil. Sybil was always overly friendly with the servants. Why, Edith recalled that friendship she had struck up with that housemaid they once had, the ginger one, who…well…who was lost when the attacks began.

"I mean it," Sybil growled, folding her arms across her chest. "He goes, then I go with him."

"SYBIL!"

"Oh enough of this nonsense!" their father blasted. "You're far too old to behaving so immaturely."

"I CAN SAY THE SAME TO YOU!" she countered, earning another gasp from their mother.

"How dare you—"

"No Papa, how dare YOU!" she growled. "Branson did NOTHING wrong; he needed to get petrol, and I volunteered to take him to where he could find some. If you must blame someone, then blame me—"

"I _DO_ BLAME YOU!"

"ROBERT, SYBIL, ENOUGH!"

Both of them were seething, but they took a step away from each other at the insistence of their mother. Edith watched as both her father and sister retreated to opposite ends of the room…like boxers in a ring.

Her mother stood in the middle of the room, assessing the both of them, looking both very annoyed, and very tired. "Sybil needs her rest," she finally stated, addressing all of them. "I suggest we go and leave her be. She will take her supper in her room, and…and stay the rest of tomorrow indoors."

Sybil whirled around then, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. "Mama, I—"

"Darling, your father is right," their mother interrupted, her eyes daring Sybil to challenge her further. "You disobeyed both of us by leaving the grounds without telling anyone…and…" she glanced up at their father. "Well, I am glad that Branson was with you to keep you safe."

Sybil bristled at this. "He did, but I helped him too! I slayed at least a dozen Walkers—"

"Oh please, spare me the details!" their mother groaned, looking sick at the thought. Edith had to agree with her mother, she found the idea of…of…of killing anything rather revolting. However…she couldn't help but admire her sister. Sybil always seemed to have such fire, such courage; she seemed to know herself, and Edith…well, she was still trying to discover what that was for her.

"Anyway…your father and I will discuss what the best course of action is to take after this," their mother concluded. "Now…let's all give Sybil some privacy so she can rest." And despite the irritated expression on their father's face…Edith knew that was the end of it. Mama was always the great peacemaker, and the great referee.

Mary dutifully rose first, turned and gave Sybil a stiff smile, but nothing more. Papa followed Mary out into the hallway, not saying anything further, which was just as well as it seemed Sybil had nothing further to say to him, either. Mama waited; however, Edith gave her mother a somewhat pleading look, a look that told her she wanted to speak with her sister, if just for a moment…and thankfully her mother nodded her head in silent acceptance, kissed Sybil's forehead despite Sybil's lack of response…and then left.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Edith fell to her knees by Sybil's bedside. "Oh Sybil, I'm so sorry," she groaned, debating about whether or not to reach for her sister's hand. Would she accept her? Or would she sit in silence and not even bother acknowledging her, just as she had done when their mother had kissed her.

Thankfully, Sybil did turn and look at her. And she looked confused. "Why? You haven't done anything wrong?"

Edith shook her head. "No…no, I…I…" she groaned and rolled her eyes slightly. "I…I was the one who…well, who 'tattled' on you. I saw the car return and…and your present state," she motioned to the dress. "And…I was the one who went into the library and told them." She bit her lip, wondering if her sister would be angry.

But Sybil shook her head, and then took Edith's hand which had been lying near her own, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not angry with you, Edith. And…and I don't blame you, either. I can't fault someone for wanting to go and alert others when they see a person covered in blood," she paused and groaned, clearly still feeling frustrated with their father. "I just…I wish you could see that…that I can fend for myself! That I'm not a victim! I'm not helpless! Oh Edith, you should have seen it!"

Edith gaped at Sybil for a moment, surprised by her sister's sudden change from irritated frustration to…proud excitement. Unlike her sisters, she never considered herself a fighter. When conflict arose, she normally chose to run. When the attacks started happening, she was one of those who hid, who buried her face against her mother's shoulder, clinging to her and trying her hardest not to burst into hysterics. She couldn't stand calm and still like Mary, and she couldn't imagine rising to the occasion and fighting like Sybil…no; she was the one who wore her pain, her heartbreak, and her fear quite plainly for all the world to see. _She_ was _not_ a fighter.

…And yet…and yet she envied her sister. She envied both of them to be honest, but she would never admit that to Mary. But right now, hearing Sybil talk about how both she and Branson took on that horde of Walkers, how they fought their way to freedom, and seeing the passion and pride light her sister's face…

While she couldn't imagine herself doing the things that Sybil had done…Edith realized how desperately she wanted to.

"…I mean it, though Edith; if anything happens to Branson, if I wake up tomorrow and discover that Papa had him sacked and thrown out of Downton, I will make good on my threat. I _will_ leave."

Edith felt a chill run down her spine. "But…but where would you go?"

Sybil shrugged. "York?"

_York_.

What was it about York that made it so special? When everything began, and the villagers were fleeing, many of them went to York. And when Branson mysteriously appeared, he told them that he and his missing brother were on their way to York. What was it about that place? What did it have that caused people to flock to it? And…why was their father so reluctant to talk about it?

She looked into her sister's eyes, and a question began to form in her throat. _Could I go too? If you do leave, will you let me come with you?_ She knew she would be more of a burden than a help to her sister; as frightening a thought as it was, Edith had a feeling Sybil could manage quite well on her own if it came down to it. But…Edith was tired of life there at Downton. She was tired to be trapped in this endless cycle of…what really? Survival? Were they really surviving? They went about the house, pretending as if everything was the same as before—except their meals were miniscule and they couldn't go outside unless they had an armed escort. And they couldn't go anywhere, either! They couldn't go into Ripon or Malton, or even walk down to the village. There were no friends or neighbors still nearby to visit, no trains to take them to London, no shops to purchase things…nothing. They were prisoners; and it was driving Edith mad.

And then Edith found herself wondering, again, for what was surely the millionth time. _Would I feel like this, as bad as I do…if my Sir Anthony were still here?_ She believed she could face anything with him by her side…even this strange existence that they were all living.

"I don't think Papa will sack Branson," she murmured, finally speaking after a long pause.

Sybil gave a small smile, but didn't look so convinced. Truth was, Edith wasn't so sure, either. But if her father did send Branson packing, it wouldn't be before dawn. And she had a feeling that Mama would try and calm him. Mama was very good at keeping everyone calm.

"I should go…" she sighed, rising reluctantly. "Goodnight," she whispered.

Sybil looked up at her and quickly took her hand. "Promise me that you'll tell me if Papa does do something," she pleaded. Edith stared at her, shocked by the request…and even more shocked by her muted head nod. Her sister was begging her to tell her if something happened to the chauffeur so she could run away! _Stupid girl…_

Only Edith didn't really believe that. She just knew it was something she was supposed to think, to believe, and to not encourage.

As she left her sister's room, she found her own mind reeling with questions. Questions about the future, about _her_ future…and about her place in this house. Did she have a place? She was the middle daughter, the one that her parents had little hope for, if they gave her any thought at all.

Maybe it was time to prove them wrong?

* * *

Matthew had been standing nearby while Robert and the others were in Sybil's room, no doubt delivering the mother of all lectures and reprimands for the youngest Crawley's "indiscretion". When Edith came running into the library, interrupting the heated argument between himself, Robert, and Sir Richard (and Mary), he was stunned to hear her say, _"Sybil is covered in blood!"_ It took a moment for the words to register…but as soon as they had, he was the first to move, running out of the room and down the stairs, Reggie's pistol still at his hip and still loaded.

Was she one of _them_ now? _Oh God no, please not that._ He still had nightmares about seeing Mosley and Mrs. Bird as Walkers. Please, not his sweet cousin, as well? But thankfully, that was not the case. As soon as he burst outside, he saw the Rolls-Royce pull up, and Tom leap out…taking notice that his friend was also drenched in blood, and in all honestly, looked significantly worse than Sybil.

_"W-w-what happened?" he stammered, staring at both Tom and Sybil in absolute shock._

_ "Had to get petrol," Tom muttered under his breath, opening the boot and revealing the containers he had filled. Sybil got out of the car then, and was actually smiling!_

_ "Hello, Matthew!" she grinned. He stared at her in horror and amazement. She frowned a little, and began running her hands through her hair. "Is something wrong?"_

_ She was teasing him. He gave her a look, but…oddly enough, found himself grinning back._

_ And then all hell broke loose._

_ Robert stumbled outside, with Mary and Edith at his heels, and he stared at the sight of the newly arrived, blood-soaked couple with the same horror that Matthew had been wearing when he first saw them. However, that horror melted into fury, and Robert suddenly erupted like Mount Vesuvius._

_ "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON?"_

_ "Papa, I can explain—"_

_ "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?"_

_ "I showed Branson where we could go get petrol—"_

_ "YOU LEFT THE GROUNDS?"_

_ "Papa, please!"_

_ "AND YOU!" Robert roared, suddenly turning on Tom. "YOU TOOK HER WITH YOU?"_

_ Matthew purposefully stepped in between Tom and Robert, especially because he could see Tom's jaw clench and knew that if Robert didn't reel himself back, or if someone didn't intercede, the Irishman would say something that would either land him in hotter water than he already was in…or he would end up punching Robert in the face._

_ "SYBIL?"_

_ Everyone turned then to see Cora, standing in the doorway along with Carson and Mrs. Hughes, looking shocked and horrified along with the rest of them. She rushed forward and snatched Sybil up in her arms, before bursting into tears._

_ "Mama…please, I'm alright, Mama, I can't breathe!"_

_ Mary stepped forward then, taking charge as Matthew knew she had a talent for doing, whispering that this should be continued inside, before ushering her mother and sister through the door, Cora still clasping Sybil as if her life depended on it. Tom remained where he stood, and Robert continued staring at him with fury. "I'll deal with you later," he growled, before finally turning and following his family inside. Mrs. Hughes remained at the door, looking confused and wondering what she should do…while Carson continued Robert's glare. "Take the car to the garage," Matthew muttered to Tom, under his breath. "And…probably for the best that you stay there. Don't worry; I'll make sure nothing happens."_

_ "I can take care of myself," Tom growled, his eyes not leaving those of the butler. However, after a pause, he looked up at Matthew muttered a "thanks", before climbing into the car and driving it around the back to the garage where the others were kept._

_ A few minutes later, Matthew joined Tom in the garage, and learned the entire truth about where he and Sybil had gone, and what had happened. _

_ "It was amazing," Tom murmured. "I mean…she caught on so fast! And even under attack like that, the way she handled herself!" Tom was beaming with such pride, and Matthew couldn't help but smile. Still…it was nerve-wracking to think that that many Walkers were nearby…and like Tom, Matthew had no doubt that they would eventually find their way to Downton._

So here he was, standing just inside a darkened guest room close to Sybil's, waiting for his cousins to emerge. The reason for his hiding? He was avoiding Sir Richard.

In some ways, he was surprised that Mary's pompous fiancée hadn't insisted on following the rest of the family into Sybil's bedroom. The man certainly seemed to be immersed in everything the Crawley's did, so much so that he would follow Mary around like some lost puppy. Matthew couldn't help but snicker at that thought; no doubt Mary found the whole thing quite annoying.

In all honesty, what did she see in Sir Richard Carlisle? The man was rich, yes, but…really, what else could be said about him? He was ruthless, and while Mary could be chilly sometimes, she was by no means cold-hearted. Certainly not like Sir Richard, who was also manipulative and devious. Yes, Matthew could see right through the man's so-called "charms"; he knew what Sir Richard was trying to do when he was talking to Robert in the library this afternoon. Yes, despite the disappointed look on Mary's face, it had been worth punching that snake. Which was the perfect description for the man; a snake. One who slithered and used poison against his enemies.

Which raised the question then…where was he? Matthew realized then that he hadn't seen Sir Richard since he had run downstairs when Tom and Sybil returned. And as annoying as the newspaperman was, insisting on being either Mary's or Robert's shadow…it was more worrying when one didn't know where he could be.

The door to Sybil's room opened then, and Matthew stiffened, waiting to see who would emerge first. He needed to talk to Robert, he needed to make his plea, once more, about the importance of training everyone and creating a battle plan, especially now since he knew there were Walkers out there, a herd of them, and they could descend upon Downton within a matter of days. And needed to do this without Sir Richard standing nearby, ready to fill Robert's ears with more of his manipulative poison.

But it wasn't Robert who emerged first from Sybil's room…

And even though Robert was the one he really needed to talk to…Matthew couldn't resist.

"OH!" Mary gasped as Matthew reached out and grabbed her wrist, tugging her into the darkened room and clamping hand over her mouth before she could cry out and demand that he unhand her.

"Ssshhhh…" he whispered, keeping his eyes peeled on the door, watching as Robert, followed by Cora, exited the room. Not until they passed, did he remove his hand.

"What are you doing?" Mary hissed, pushing him away from her. "Are you mad?"

"I want to talk to you," Matthew whispered, realizing then that Edith was still in Sybil's room. He took hold of Mary's wrist once more, and tried to tug her further into the room, away from the corridor so Edith wouldn't hear them when she emerged. "You have no idea how difficult it has been to speak to you without someone else hovering nearby."

Mary tugged her wrist free and glared at him. "So what, we have to sneak around in the dark like a pair of thieves?" she hissed.

"If it means not having to worry about your fiancée interrupting us, then yes."

She continued to glare at him, but he was happy to notice that she didn't walk away and leave.

"Well, go on…what is so important?"

Oh Lord, there were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask, he honestly didn't know where to begin. But it was probably best to keep the conversation on present matters. He didn't want to rehash hurt feelings from that ill-fated garden party before the War.

"How is Sybil?"

Mary stared at him. "_That's_ your important question?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course not, but…how is she?"

Mary groaned and folded her arms across her chest. "She's surprisingly fine…" she rolled her eyes then. "I suppose that's not so surprising, knowing Sybil. She's been dying to…to shoot one of those things for quite some time," she muttered, clearly showing disapproval. Mary then lifted her eyes and returned that icy glare from before. "And you best talk with this 'friend' of yours and make sure he doesn't let something like that happen again!"

"Tom?"

"Yes, 'Tom', the chauffeur," Mary muttered. "He's supposed to be protecting her, and instead he's endangering her life—"

"Oh come now, Mary; we're ALL in danger right now! And at least Sybil has the sense to recognize that something needs to be done!"

Mary bristled then. "And what does that mean?" He knew she wasn't dense, and of course she knew this too. So without so much as a pause to breathe, she continued. "I can't believe what you're trying do."

Now he was the one looking confused. "What? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Oh stop it, Matthew," she hissed. "The way you're trying to…to…to undermine Papa!"

"Undermine?" he blinked at her for a few minutes, as if trying to absorb her accusation. He felt his jaw clench and his back stiffen. "So you clearly disagree then, that everyone at Downton should be prepared to fight? That…everything should continue as if nothing has happened? Dress for dinner, have tea in the drawing room at exactly four o'clock—"

"Is it so bad, trying to hold on to a little semblance of…of…" Mary was throwing her hands up into the air, clearly agitated. "…Of…of sanity?"

"Sanity?" Matthew shook his head. "Sanity is _accepting_ that things are bad! That..that the world is not as it used to be and will probably never go back to that time, ever!"

Mary stared at him, and for the first time since they had been reunited…he truly saw fear in her eyes. Fear…and regret. She knows, he realized. She knows that things will never be as they once were; and she's afraid of how to live in such a world. His arms ached to hold her, to tell her he understood that fear, perhaps better than anyone. He had woken up in the middle of a nightmare, and was only just beginning to accept that he wasn't going to wake up and find that the world was how it used to be. He had faced monsters in the street, monsters that had attacked him, that had tried to kill him and eat his flesh. He had faced death in so many manners and in so many ways, both during the war and now. He was terrified as to what had happened to his mother. And he knew he would never forget the anguish of facing Mosley and Mrs. Bird as Walkers. Or that he would ever forgive himself for leaving Reggie and Lavinia behind. There were so many fears that he was facing…but he truly believed he could face them all and again…with _her_ by his side.

Mary took a step away from him and swallowed. Her eyes, which seemed to be shimmering with unshed tears, were downcast. "Perhaps…perhaps Sir Richard is right…"

Matthew stared at her with disbelieving eyes. "What?"

She looked up at him then and held his gaze. "That we have done well enough…without your leadership."

A slap wouldn't have hurt as deeply as her words. What was she saying? That she wished he weren't there? That he had never come back? Oh God…was she saying that she longed for the time when she still thought him dead?

Indeed, a slap wouldn't have hurt as deeply.

He straightened his back and lifted his chin. "Well…I'm sorry to disappoint you."

She groaned and looked at him. "Oh really, Matthew, must you be so—"

"Dramatic?" he finished for her, recalling the words she had thrown in his face when he had threatened earlier about leaving the house if he wasn't wanted? He knew he couldn't do that, not really; he had abandoned Reggie and Lavinia, he was not going to abandon anyone else. Yet at the same time, there was a part of him that wished he didn't care as deeply as he did; there was a part of him that wished he could just leave without a second glance or any regret. Perhaps he could leave with Tom, help him find his brother? And then they could help him find his mother? Perhaps they would all go to York and see if the rumors were true? If not that, then maybe return to London, seek out Reggie and Lavinia? Yes…perhaps he could do all those things…if he didn't care.

But he did care. And that was his curse; to care for someone who didn't feel the same way.

"Yes, Mary…I'm afraid I must be 'dramatic' as you accuse," he answered, trying very hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it was difficult. Extremely, difficult. "However, despite what you and your fiancée may think, I am not going to give up. While you think I'm undermining your father, in truth, I am merely trying to help him and everyone else here at Downton, survive. Because I don't want to lose anyone else; I don't want anyone to suffer the way so many others have suffered, like Mosley or Mrs. Bird or the countless soldiers, staff, and villagers who sought refuge here, and you died to keep everyone else safe. I don't want to lose Bates or Anna or any of the other servants; I don't to lose your father, your mother, your sisters, your grandmother, or…" he paused, his eyes holding hers and it seemed that she had stopped breathing as she stared at him. He knew he was barely breathing. "Or you," he finished. "I don't want to lose you…" _again_, he silently added.

Silence fell around them then. Neither of them spoke, they simply stood and stared at one another, waiting…waiting for something to happen.

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. Mary gasped and took another step back, her eyes falling to the ground once more. Despite the shadows that hovered around them, Matthew could still make out the blush of her cheek.

"Speaking of Bates," she began. "I…I promised Anna that you and Branson would…would go into the village—the hospital, actually, and…and find him some morphine."

Matthew looked back at her, fighting the urge to grab her shoulders and force her to look at him. But he didn't, of course. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and nodded his head. "Do you think there will be any left?"

Mary swallowed and lifted her eyes. "I don't know," she sighed. "But…I promised Anna. And…and Bates shouldn't have to suffer. Or she, because no doubt it's very painful for her…" her words began to fade. "To see the one you love in such a state."

Was she strictly talking about Anna and Bates? He knew the answer his heart longed to hear.

"It's too late to do anything about that tonight," he whispered. "But…tomorrow. I will go and find the morphine and any other medical supplies we need, tomorrow."

Mary nodded her head, satisfied with his answer. "I should go tell Anna."

He wanted to reach out and stop her. He didn't want her to go; he didn't want to stop this moment, even if it was nothing like how he had imagined a conversation between the two of them would be. But he did no such thing. Really, what more could be said? Mary was…content…to let things remain as they were. Not only had she rejected his opinions on how things should run, but she had more or less told him that she thought everything was fine before he had arrived…and that things should continue in that same state. As if he had never appeared.

_As if she thought I was still dead._

It didn't matter. As deeply as he cherished her opinion, hers was the one that didn't matter, not this time. If he could convince Robert to see reason, then everything could change, and Matthew would sleep better, knowing that everyone was prepared and able to fight. And even if Mary longed for the "old days" he couldn't see her arguing against her father.

Still…he wouldn't feel so hopeless or depressed, if he knew she believed in him. If he knew that a part of her..._still_ cared.

* * *

Mary felt numb. After that strange and secret conversation with Matthew, she felt as if someone had dipped her in a vat of ice water, and left her there to freeze. Well, everyone said she had ice running through her veins, instead of blood. Even Sir Richard believed that; said he'd rather have a wife with sharp wits, a calm head, and a hard heart, than one who cried at the drop of a hat. Still…she wasn't so unfeeling.

And it was taking every ounce of willpower that she contained, not to cry.

She arrived at the Blue Room, where Bates was sleeping. He was lying in bed, his eyes closed, but the expression on his face was…one of discomfort. He kept shifting, and she would notice his a frown form on his features, a frown that quickly became a wince.

Anna was sitting in a chair, her back to the door. She was holding his hand, and kept running her fingers back and forth in what could only be described as a soothing gesture. _A loving gesture._ Sir Richard often took her hand, or touched her elbow or shoulder. But those gestures never felt _loving,_ not the way she was seeing Anna touch Bates.

It wouldn't be the first time that Mary felt a wave of envy wash over her at the sight of the housemaid and valet.

Anna must have sensed her presence, because she quickly turned around in her chair and met Mary's eyes. Mary put on a smile, drawing on the lessons she had been taught as she prepared for her debut; _always smile, even when smiling is the last thing you want to do. _Smiling makes you look attractive and interesting. It also hides other emotions.

"How is he?" she whispered, quietly approaching the bed.

Anna never once released Bates' hand.

"Better," Anna murmured, turning her attentions back to Bates, while putting on a fake smile of her own.

Mary bit her lip. "I'm sorry we were unable to fetch the morphine this afternoon."

Anna looked up at her, but quietly shook her head. "No need to apologize. It was a lovely idea, but quite impossible."

Mary frowned at this. Why was it impossible? "We _will_ get it, though, Anna," she reassured, her voice firm and determined. "I just spoke with Matthew—Capt. Crawley," she corrected. "He will go in the morning to find morphine and other medical supplies from the hospital."

Anna smiled at this, but her smile wasn't like before. It was weak…like the sort of smile you would give to pacify someone, but that didn't convey one's true emotion. Anna didn't believe her; and Mary couldn't fault her that. But if anything, it made her even more determined.

"I'm serious, Anna, we _will_ find that morphine for Bates, and we _will_ bring it back…tomorrow."

"Milady," Anna sighed. "I appreciate what you're saying and trying to do, I really do, but…" she looked back at Bates, and Mary felt her chest tighten at the sight of both the love and sadness the head housemaid had in her eyes. "Maybe we shouldn't make such promises," she whispered.

_No_, Mary thought. _No, she would not give up hope, not now, not for this_. She surprised both herself and Anna by reaching out and gripping the woman's arm. "I am determined, Anna; more than determined. _I_ will find you that morphine, _I_ will find it and bring it back to you before the day is over tomorrow_, I promise_. And I _do not_ break my promises."

Anna stared at Mary, a look of confusion washing over her face. "What…what do you mean, milady?"

"Exactly what I said," Mary vowed, squeezing Anna's arm before straightening her back and looking down at Bates, her mind made up. "_I_ will accompany Capt. Crawley tomorrow; and we will not leave until I have that morphine in my hands."

Anna gasped and Mary lifted her chin. Without another word, she turned and left the room, a determined step in her walk. Of course, she would have to explain to all the wretched men her decision; and after what had just happened with Sybil, she doubted her father would be "thrilled" with the idea of allowing his eldest to leave the grounds. She doubted Matthew would be very pleased, either. And who knows what Sir Richard would say. Well, she didn't have to wonder about that for very long.

"Do you think that's wise?"

Mary gasped, turning quickly and seeing the very man she had just been thinking about standing before her. Where had he come from? And how much had he heard?

"You were spying on me?"

He clucked his tongue, as a parent would to a disobedient child. "Were you going to tell me before the moment arose, that you were going to accompany Capt. Crawley on this little mission to the Downton hospital?"

She was getting fed up with his constant hovering. Must she have his approval before making any decision?

"I _am_ going," she hissed, her eyes daring him to argue the subject with her.

He held up his hands in a sign of surrender…something that Mary knew didn't literally mean surrender, not from him.

"Alright, I won't stop you," he murmured, putting on his own smile. "In fact…I'll go with you."

She did everything in her power to fight the groan that immediately rose in the back of her throat at his words. "That won't be necessary—"

"You can't expect me to stand by and accept that my fiancée is heading off into danger, quite willingly, and just…sit here and wait for her return?" he locked eyes with her. "What kind of man would allow such a thing?"

A chill ran down Mary's spine but she ignored it and lifted her chin. "Capt. Crawley may not allow it," she whispered. "You and he aren't exactly the 'best of friends'."

Sir Richard chuckled at this, one hand rising to rub his jaw, the place where Matthew had punched him earlier. "We got off to a rocky start, that is safe to say," he sighed and returned his gaze to her eyes. "But do you think he will so willingly allow _you_ to accompany him?" His eyes were penetrating into hers, like a cobra hypnotizing its prey. "After all…are you anything…_special_ to him?"

She felt her jaw clench at his accusation. Indeed, Sir Richard Carlisle's greatest weapon was his words. "I don't care what he thinks," she hissed. "Or anyone, for that matter."

"Ah yes," he sighed. "How could I forget the Pemuk scandal? How you came to me, seeking my help, not caring what I thought about the whole affair," he glanced behind him, towards the Blue Room. "This isn't the first time you've stuck your neck out for that housemaid."

Her fingers flexed. The temptation to slap him was very great, indeed. But she thought about what he had just said about Anna, and she remembered why she had made her promise. _Put your own pride aside and do what you need to do help Anna and Bates._

"Fine," she replied, her tone cold and unfeeling. "Capt. Crawley will no doubt be grateful for another gun, and you can help with carrying anything heavy that we may find and need to bring back."

He smiled that crocodile smile of his. "See? I knew you would find a use for me."

She smiled back, before turning on her heel and retreating to her room, her smile disappearing the second he couldn't see her. However, he called out to her back before she turned the corner. "We make a good team, don't you think, my dear?"

"Of course," she replied, her courteous smile returning once more, and not disappearing until she was safe behind her bedroom door.

* * *

Cora watched her husband pace. When he was angry or had a great deal on his mind, he couldn't sit still. She sighed and put her book down, knowing she wouldn't get very far in it tonight, and simply folded her hands on her lap and waited for the tirade that she knew was to come.

"I…I feel like Captain Bligh," he groaned. "And they're all ready to commit mutiny."

"Robert…" Cora sighed. "For one thing, Downton is not _The Bounty, _and for another...you're not as bad as he was." She was trying to make light of the situation; it was her way. But it was clear that tonight, her husband wasn't in the mood.

"I'm serious, Cora! First Matthew, then Sybil…" he groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "I can't control my servants, Sir Richard of all people had to come to my defense, and Mary…" he shook his head, a look of shame washing over his face. "Mary didn't even seem to be on my side this afternoon."

"Oh stop it, Robert," Cora admonished. "Mary has always supported you."

He shook his head. "If that were true, then she and Matthew would be married by now."

Cora sighed. "Darling you mustn't take their disagreements as a sign of 'mutiny'," she patted the spot next to her. "Come to bed, Robert."

He looked at her with that face that Cora wished everyone could see. It was an expression that not only revealed the tremendous burden her husband bore as leader and protector of all that resided in the house, but it also showed how deeply he cared for everyone there, and how sometimes he second-guessed himself, because he wanted to do what was right for others. Of course, his aristocratic upbringing prevented him from revealing such "flaws" before others; only she was the one who had these opportunities to see her beloved knight without his armor.

"Do you think Matthew is right?" he asked her. It was a genuine question and she knew he truly wished to hear her opinion. "Do you think…do you think I'm endangering us all by not insisting that we…have some sort of 'battle plan'?"

He had told her how Matthew had cornered him again, after they had left Sybil's room. How the future heir pleaded that Robert understand the danger that was coming; that a 'herd' of these monsters was not so far away…and may descend upon the house within a matter of days. Now, more than ever, Matthew begged Robert to let all members of the house learn how to use a weapon and make themselves ready for battle.

"I don't think you're endangering the house, dear," Cora reassured. And she didn't think that. She felt her husband was doing what he thought best, and that was keeping everyone calm. After all, he had allowed Anna and O'Brien to be trained by Bates in how to handle a gun. And O'Brien was always so protective of her, whenever she moved about the house, especially if she wanted to go outside and get a bit of fresh air. Of course, she never wandered through the gardens like she used to; and she missed those moments, dreadfully. "I think you have done a very good job in managing things and keeping everyone calm while this tragedy arose around us."

"But now…?"

Cora sighed and patted the spot next to her. Robert sat down on the bed and slowly began to pull the covers over himself. "Now…we may need to change strategies."

He sighed and took her hand in his. "I was afraid of that…"

She looked at him with concern. "Why, darling?"

"Because…because I was praying this nightmare would soon be over. I was hoping that after those four, blessed, peaceful weeks, everything would go back to normal, back to how things were before the War."

She reached up and ran her fingers across his cheek. "Do you remember what you once said to me, about how the world was before the War?"

He nodded. "The world was in a dream before the War…" he began to repeat.

"But now we've woken up and said goodbye to it," Cora finished.

He gripped her hand and brought it to his lips. "I had just hoped we would be waking up from this, as well."

She turned towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. "The girls are strong, Robert. I know you're angry with Sybil, and I don't blame you—"

"It's not a game, Cora, and I honestly think that she—"

"She _knows_ it's not a game," she reassured him. "She wants to do her part, and…while we may not like it, we can't fault her for that."

He groaned. "No, I suppose not—but this is very different than agreeing to let her train to be a nurse."

Cora couldn't help but smile at the memory. "True. But the girls will be fine, Robert, I have faith. And we have wonderful, loyal servants, people who have stuck by us and who have stayed. They will serve better than the finest soldiers in all the British army."

"And we have Matthew and Sir Richard," he added.

Cora nodded her head. "Yes…and they will do everything in their power to keep our family, this house, and all who reside here, safe."

He nodded his head, and then turned it to kiss her brow. "Thank you, my dear. For everything."

Cora smiled and snuggled closer to his body as he reached over and turned off the light. They lay in silence for a while as the darkness filled the room. She was glad she could help her husband unburden himself, as well as meet the new changes with open arms, as reluctant as he may be to face those changes.

Suddenly, a thought dawned on her. And she actually found herself giggling. Robert took notice of this and squeezed her shoulder. "What's so funny?"

Cora giggled. "I almost forgot," she whispered. "We also have your mother."

Robert paused, letting the meaning behind her words sink in. And then he found himself laughing beside her. "A most formidable weapon, indeed."

"Those Walkers won't know what hit them."


	17. Discovery

_AHHHH! I know, I'm *really* late with this; I'm so sorry for how long it took me to update this story. But here it is at last, my own "mid-season finale" (because if "The Walking Dead" can do it, then so can I). This is the end of the story *for now*; it will pick up again after the holidays, sometime in January. Stay tuned to my Profile Page for updates, OR, if you haven't already, click to follow the story so you can find out when! _

_This chapter is a little weird in it's linear-ism (is that a word? Well if not, I'm making it up). Basically, the timeline for this story is going to jump back and forth from the present, to earlier scenes (as well as different perspectives in some of those scenes). Yes, there is a bit of a cliff-hanger at the end (I'm sorry! I can't help myself) but that's really just to keep you all wanting to read more when I bring it back after Christmas. AND SPEAKING OF CHRISTMAS..._

_*shameless self-promotion* I started posting chapters to my multi-ship, mult-character story Love (and Downton) Actually; if you're a fan of romantic comedies, modern AU's, holiday festivities, and the various different romances happening in Downton, then check out my story! There's something for almost everyone! :o)_

_OK! Thanks for your patience, hope you enjoy this mid-season finale, let me know your thoughts, and see you all (with zombies) in 2013!_

* * *

_Chapter Seventeen_

"**Discovery"**

_Now..._

It was all supposed to be quite simple.

They were to go into the hospital, fetch the medicine that was needed for Bates, and leave. And yet…it hadn't been very simple, not at all.

Now, he and Anna had gotten separated from the others. They were hiding in a hospital room, after opening a door that Thomas was certain led to the medical supply hall…only to find something entirely different.

"Oh God…" Matthew groaned. Both Anna and he were standing in the front of the group, Thomas just behind them, and Mary and Sir Richard behind him. Anna had her rifle ready, and he his pistol. Thomas was the one who held the lantern. But when he held it high overhead for them to see down the dark corridor…the sight that greeted them was one they wished to avoid.

"Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggggg gggggghhhhhh!" moaned the handful of Walkers who seemed to be devouring…they weren't sure, nor did they want to investigate. Now, the hungry horde looked up from their half-eaten carcass, and rolled back their lips to show their rotting, sharp teeth.

"OH!" Lady Mary gasped at the sight.

"Jesus!" Sir Richard grunted, his hand quickly rising to cover his nose at the stench the Walkers brought forth.

"RUN!" Thomas cried, panicking and dropping the lantern he was holding.

"Barrow, NO!" Matthew cried after Thomas, but it was too late. The former first footman was gone, and now that he had dropped the lantern, the light had been destroyed, encasing them all in the darkness of the corridor, making it impossible to fight.

Anna fired anyway, but it was impossible to know if she hit anything. "We have no choice, now we HAVE to run!" Matthew growled, grabbing hold of Anna's hand and pulling her away.

"NO! We need that morphine for Mr. Bates!"

"We can't go down there and fight in darkness!" Matthew hissed, still managing to pull her aside.

"ANNA!" Mary's voice was high and shrill, but Sir Richard was already pushing her down the corridor, away from the hungry horde that was shuffling and hobbling towards them. Matthew let out a curse, and once again began to drag the housemaid away.

…And that was how they had gotten separated.

* * *

_Earlier…_

"I WON'T ALLOW IT!"

"Papa, please—"

"NO! I REFUSE! YOU HAVE ASKED A GREAT DEAL FROM ME ALREADY, BUT _THIS_, I CANNOT ALLOW!"

"Papa, I promised Anna—"

"I WILL NOT SEND MY DAUGHTER INTO THE LION'S DEN!"

"She won't be going into the lion's den!" Matthew intervened. "I'll make sure she's safe—"

"You mean, I'LL make sure she's safe," Sir Richard interrupted.

Matthew groaned and tried his hardest not to lash out right now at his adversary. He wasn't thrilled about having to bring Sir Richard Carlisle with him (he'd much rather have Tom join him) but he had a feeling that Sir Richard's presence was the only thing that would allow Mary to join him on his mission into the village to collect medical supplies. At least that was what Mary had told him, when she came knocking at his door just minutes after the sun had risen.

Yes, that had been an interesting way to start the day.

He awoke to what sounded like a…a frantic knock at his door. In his half-woken daze, he stumbled out of bed and went to the door, thinking it would be one of the servants. Imagine his shock when instead, he found Mary—and in her dressing gown.

"Mary?"

"I'm going with you."

Was he still dreaming? Granted, he had had this sort of dream before, but…the words she had spoken in those dreams were very different. He shook his head, trying to wake up as well as understand what she was saying. "W-w-what do you mean?"

"I'm going with you…into the village. I told Anna I would go and…and I want to go…" her words trailed off then, and she looked down at their feet, standing only inches away.

He stared at her with wide eyes. He wasn't quite sure what to say. He was still having a hard time believing that she was standing here, in her dressing gown, and the sun had just barely risen over the horizon. She looked tired, like she had barely slept a wink. Perhaps she had spent a majority of the night, tossing and turning over this decision. But he quickly stopped himself from allowing his ego to be flattered. _She's not coming because she wants to be with you; get that through your thick skull,_ he chastised. _She told you that she's doing this for Anna…and I can't say that I blame her. _

"Alright," he answered.

Mary looked at him, perhaps a little startled that he hadn't argued with her. In some ways, he was surprised he hadn't tried to argue with her, either. There was real possibility that going into the village would be dangerous—after all, look what had happened to Mrs. Bird and Molesley? Look what Sybil and Tom had encountered but five miles from Downton? Despite his frustrations with Mary…the thought of any harm coming to her was like having a great stone dropped on his chest; he couldn't breathe.

But the time for gentlemen to step forward and take on the evils of the world, shielding women from such atrocities was over…and he was beginning to doubt that such a time ever truly existed. And despite their argument from the previous night, Matthew was selfish enough to admit, he desired every minute he could have with her.

"Good," she whispered, after a short pause. "Well…I'm glad that's settled."

Indeed, what more could be said? Now they were both just standing there, a rather awkward silence falling across them. Was she expecting him to say anything further? Tell her what his plan was for this errand? When they would be leaving? Ask him to show her how to use a gun the same way Sybil had asked Tom? Or…was she expecting him to say something in regards to the conversation they had had last night? He had managed to go and speak with Robert and had finally convinced him to at the very least consider the necessity for preparing for the worst. Did Mary know about that? Or did she still wish that he hadn't arrived in the first place? That everything remained as it was? That she still believe that he were…dead?

That bitter feeling was washing over him again. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, summoning his patience so as to not lash out and cause another argument. He was tired of arguing with her. "Well, it's still quite early...and who knows what the day will bring. So it's probably for the best that we both get some more sleep—"

"Sir Richard will be coming too."

Matthew stared at her as if she had just thrown a glass of cold water in his face. Of all the people there, Sir Richard Carlisle was the last man Matthew wanted by his side, holding a loaded gun.

"I see…" he replied, as calmly as he could. What else could he say? Well, there were a great many things he could say, but all of them would no doubt result in Mary throwing a slap across his face. "Well…I'll repeat what I said before. It's probably best—"

"It's not as if I wish he were coming!" Mary hissed in exasperation. "He just…once he heard me promise Anna that I would, he too insisted!" She folded her arms across her chest and continued fuming. "Besides, it will put Papa at ease, knowing he's beside me."

This surprised Matthew. Not the part about Sir Richard insisting he come along, (Sir Richard seemed to like having as much control over every situation as possible) but Mary's clear…disdain…at the thought of her fiancée accompanying them, or to be more specific, _her_.

"His love for you is very great," he murmured, watching for her reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Mary looked at him with what could only be described as deep annoyance. However, she didn't try to argue against his words. Instead, she lifted her chin and put on that famous haughty expression that only a Crawley woman could radiate. "It is," she muttered. "And…he cares a great deal for my well-being."

He folded his arms across his chest. Alright, if she wanted to play that game…

"He's not the only one."

Her dark eyes went wide at these words. Then that coolness he knew she possessed so well returned at full force. "No, you're quite right. Papa and Carson do as well."

He couldn't help but smile a little at her retort. However, his answer was quite serious. "Do you think that if I didn't care, I wouldn't be insisting on everyone, no matter their station, no matter their sex, to be prepared in case the worse happens?" A sudden wave of boldness washed over him, and took a small step closer until they were, quite literally, a breath apart. "Do you think that if I didn't care…I would have come back?"

Mary looked up at him, her eyes moving back and forth from his to his lips…and Matthew felt his own mouth part with longing. God, it had been so long since he had kissed her, and yet…he still remembered every vivid detail of her lips…

The sudden noise of the kitchen maid, Daisy, coming around the corner, holding a bucket full of wood to light the fires in the early morning, caused them both to take a step back, as well as startle her at finding them there. "OH!" she gasped, jumping at the sight of them and nearly dropping her bucket.

Matthew lifted his hands, trying to calm the kitchen maid; the last thing anyone needed was for her to scream. They would think the house overrun!

"I…I'm so sorry, Capt. Crawley! I…I didn't know…I didn't expect to find you—"

"It's alright, it's alright, no need to be alarmed…" he reassured. He turned to glance at Mary…only to discover she was gone.

He didn't see her again until breakfast, and then it was nothing but awkward glances and mumbled words. Robert was there, of course, clearly missing his newspaper as he ate butter-less and jam-less toast. Cousin Violet sat in her corner near the window…she always seemed to be found there. Edith sat next to him, while Mary sat across from her. Sybil was nowhere to be seen (he guessed she was either making a protest by not gracing the table with her presence…or that she had quite literally been locked away) and Cousin Cora, despite the apocalypse happening all around them, continued to breakfast in bed. Which meant there was only one other person to join them…

Speak of the devil, Matthew thought to himself as Sir Richard finally made his appearance.

"Ah, I see you are all breakfasting already!" he greeted the room, before walking directly to Mary, and dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

Matthew fought the urge to roll his eyes; he had a feeling Mary was fighting a similar urge.

Sir Richard held Matthew's gaze after kissing Mary good morning, before retreating to the sideboard to gather what measly remains they had for breakfast. "So!" his voice rang out, sounding far too…jolly…for the world in which they lived. "Tell me, Capt. Crawley; when shall we part?"

Robert glanced up at Sir Richard, but it was Edith who asked the first question. "Part? Part where?"

"Hush," Mary hissed at her sister.

Sir Richard only smiled. "Capt. Crawley is allowing both Lady Mary and myself to accompany him on his errand to the village."

Now Robert's attention was fully gathered. "What?" he choked on his toast and stared first at Sir Richard in utter dismay, before darting his eyes to his daughter…and then to himself. "What does he mean?"

Mary glared at Sir Richard, but he didn't even look at her; his eyes were locked with Matthew's.

"What on earth is he talking about? Mary?" Robert growled, his agitation growing by the second.

Edith, who couldn't seem to help herself when the opportunity arose to cause trouble for her sister, jumped in. "I think he's saying that Mary wishes to travel with Cousin Matthew to the hospital, in search of the morphine for Bates."

"Mind your own business!" Mary hissed at her sister. But the damage was already done, and that was all Edith cared about.

And so here they were, Robert shouting at all of them, Mary trying to reason with him, Sir Richard simply standing in the background, surveying the chaos that he had come to create, for there was no doubt in Matthew's mind that he had done this all on purpose. _Why am I even bothering? I should just leave and get those supplies myself! _

"WHY?" Robert bellowed once more, but his tone had changed slightly. Some of the rage and anger had disappeared…replaced now by…a desperate plea. "Why, Mary?" he repeated again, his volume lowering slightly as he looked at his eldest with frightened eyes. "Why must you go?"

Mary sighed and reached forward to take her father's hands. "Papa, I promised Anna—"

"Yes, I know, you said that, but…do you not trust Matthew to get the supplies? I'm sure he'll—"

"Matthew hasn't volunteered his time to see to the comfort of patients the way the rest of us has," Mary interrupted. "He won't know what to look for, and since I have no doubt you will forbid Sybil—"

"You can rest assured of that," Robert grumbled.

"Then it makes the most sense that _I_ accompany him."

Edith made a scoffing sound, and Matthew groaned, knowing what was to come next. "As if you're an expert," she muttered under her breath.

Mary sent her sister a look that could freeze hell, but Edith returned the look with just as much ferocity.

"Robert, I will see to it that no harm comes to her," Sir Richard promised, reaching forward and touching Robert's shoulder in a gesture to comfort the earl, however his eyes never left those of Matthew's. "I won't even let her out of my sight."

Matthew narrowed his gaze. Sir Richard had been working very hard to keep that promise, ever since Matthew's return. He wondered how the newspaperman would react if he knew that Mary had come his door this morning, more or less confessing that didn't want Sir Richard to accompany her on this mission.

"I will be careful, Papa—"

"I can't believe it, Mary, I can't believe after what happened to your sister yesterday, you would ask this of me?"

Matthew watched as the eldest Crawley sister lifted her chin in defiance. "I suppose I'm not asking you, then. I'm telling you."

Robert's eyes widened, as did several others around the table, including his own. Matthew knew that Mary could be an indomitable force if she willed it, but he had yet to see her take such a stand against her father, especially considering how she had defended him and his actions the other night.

"I am going with Matthew…" she held his gaze and then quickly returned it to her father. "For Anna's sake; I made a promise, and I am going to find that morphine for Bates."

Robert opened his mouth to say something further, although the poor man looked lost and helpless. However, the loud thumping of the Dowager Countess' cane brought all the attention away from the breakfast table, to the corner where the regal-looking woman sat. _Like a queen, looking out over the vast wasteland of her kingdom, _Matthew couldn't help but think.

"We are at an impasse," Cousin Violet announced, her eyes looking into those of everyone standing there…even Carson's, who had somehow managed to stay silent this entire time, but no doubt wanted to join Robert in protesting Mary's going just as loudly as her father. "There is no sense in wasting one's breath when everyone is being so stubborn." This was rather humorous, considering Violet was perhaps the most stubborn of them all. "Mary has made a promise to the housemaid; and while I have no doubt that Matthew and the chauffeur could handle this well enough on their own…Mary, out of loyalty and compassion to a servant, is insisting she go along."

"Granny—"

Violet held up a hand to silence her granddaughter's protest. "It seems to me, Robert, that in order to avoid further insurrection amongst your daughters, you stand aside and let her go. Sir Richard will be joining her, so you can rest assured that he will do everything in his power to keep her safe—after all, he knows the consequences better than anyone if he doesn't," she gave a small smile to the newspaperman, but it was obvious to Matthew that his cousin clearly did not think very…highly…of her granddaughter's fiancée.

"Thank you, your Ladyship," Sir Richard muttered under his breath.

"Now, I know I would feel much more comfortable if you took a few others with you," Violet continued.

Matthew frowned a little at this. A few others? While he expected that the hospital trip would also become a trip to gather as many supplies as they could, he didn't want to bring half the house—the car couldn't hold that many.

"Yes…take Thomas with you; as a medic he'll know what to look for—I'm sorry, Mary, but I have to agree with Edith," Violet apologized.

Mary's face darkened a deep red, and Edith couldn't help but smirk a little.

"Yes, Thomas should be sufficient," Violet said with a nod.

"And me, your Ladyship."

All eyes turned to the doorway as the housemaid to which the voice belonged, stepped forward, holding her head high.

"Anna?" Mary gasped. Carson looked like he was ready to explode.

"Forgive me for interrupting, your Lordship," Anna murmured, turning her eyes to Robert. "But…I can't let Lady Mary, or Capt. Crawley, or anyone do this—at least not without me. Mr. Bates is my responsibility, and he's taught me well in how to take care of myself—so beggin' your pardon, but…I'm going too."

"Well…" Violet sighed, looking at Carson and then back at Robert, before finally settling her eyes on Matthew. "There's your team! Get to it!"

* * *

_Now..._

It was all her fault he was here. If she hadn't destroyed Bates' morphine, none of this would have happened! He wouldn't be in this mess, he wouldn't be running for his life from monsters…and he certainly wouldn't be completely on his own.

He was lost. Lost, somewhere deep inside, the Downton Village Hospital.

…And there were Walkers in here with him.

Lord, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette. It was amazing how lost he had become. The hospital wasn't that large, but in the midst of panic, and with no light (the windows had all been boarded up when people began abandoning the village) he felt like a rat, caught in one of those mazes, the sort that scientists use…before they poison the beasts.

Thomas was on edge. Every time he heard the tiniest sound, he reached for his gun and held it out…prepared to fire. But what he wanted to do more than anything was run. He wanted to be out of this place, back in the daylight, and back at the house! And it was ALL Sarah O'Brien's fault that he was here! Hers, and Bates'. Yes, because if Bates hadn't broken his leg in the first place, he wouldn't be here at all!

Oh Lord, why didn't he leave when he had the chance? Back when massive numbers of people were leaving for York, why didn't he go too? He had his chance! But he stayed…for some damned reason…he stayed at Downton Abbey. And look what that got him?

A noise shuffled behind him.

Thomas gasped and strange, keening sound escaped his throat. "WHO'S THERE?" he demanded.

His pistol was ready, his finger on the trigger…but his hands were shaking. "WHO'S THERE? ANSWER ME?"

Still nothing.

"I have a gun…" he threatened, trying to sound much braver than he felt. "And…and I will SHOOT you if you don't answer—"

The answer came. But it was not a voice.

Something hard hit him on the back of the head. Thomas groaned and crumpled to the ground, his consciousness quickly leaving him. This was all her fault…

* * *

_Earlier…_

Sarah O'Brien calmly smoked her cigarette while Thomas paced back and forth, his hands flying every which way while he cursed.

"This is YOUR doing!" he swore, pausing long enough to point an accusing finger at her. "If you hadn't destroyed that damned bottle of morphine, I wouldn't have to go on this bloody errand!"

She rolled her eyes; ever since Mr. Carson had come below stairs to announce that Thomas would be joining Capt. Crawley and several others on a "mission" to get supplies from the village, including more morphine for Mr. Bates, the footman had retreated outside to "get a smoke before having to leave", which was really an excuse to unleash his panic and fury about having to leave the house once more and face the monsters of the world beyond.

"Don't throw this back on me," she warned, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "You would have done the same thing—you even admitted as much when I told you that I had done it."

Thomas muttered something under his breath and tried to take another long drag on his cigarette to keep calm. It seemed that neither war nor an apocalypse were very good on her friend's nerves.

"Look, you're missing the larger picture here," Sarah whispered under her breath, glancing towards the kitchen entrance, praying that Daisy wouldn't choose that moment of all moments to come outside to empty the rubbish bins. "You're the medical expert; they're depending on you to help them find what they need for Bates!"

Thomas looked at her, a deep frown of confusion on his face. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it!" Sarah hissed. "You carry all the cards with you! You go into that hospital and hand them some bottle, claiming its morphine and they'll believe you!"

He stared at her for a long moment, as if slowly processing the meaning behind her words. She expected a wicked smile, but instead she was met with an even deeper frown. "Are you mad?" he growled. "You're talking about murder!"

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "We've been trying to get rid of Mr. Bates for years! What better opportunity _than this?"_

"Oh of course, it's easy for you to say!" Thomas hissed. "You'll be sitting pretty here, while I'll be in the village, risking my life from _those things_—" he waved his arm in the general direction of the outside world, "—and who will they blame when they discover they gave Bates the wrong 'medicine'? They'll skin me alive!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic," she muttered. She had meant what she had said; this truly was their best opportunity. Still, Thomas did need some "protection" once the questions began to swirl about what had happened. "Alright…you get the morphine…but surely there's something we can mix with it? Some sort of poison that we can add—"

"Miss O'Brien, I don't like Bates any more than you…but even _this_ is too much," he spat, flinging the cigarette down on the ground.

She glared at his retreating back as he turned into the kitchens. "Coward," she muttered under her breath. He could talk a good game, but when it came to action, Thomas liked to stand in the background and let everyone else do the work. So be it; if she had to dirty her hands to get the task done, then she would. It was better this way, anyhow. She would be the last person any of them would suspect, even saintly Anna. And if the blame did fall on Thomas…well, he may just have to 'man up' enough to take it for once.

* * *

_Now..._

"We have to go back and find them!"

Sir Richard groaned as Mary once again filled his ear with the same demand she had been making for the last twenty-minutes or so.

"How can you stand there? How can you be so calm when Anna and Matthew are in danger?" she demanded.

After the lantern had fallen, after Thomas had run, Sir Richard did the only thing he could think of…and that was to run as well. Despite his fiancée's protests, he pushed her ahead of him. And when she tried to turn around and see if Anna and Matthew were falling, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her, hard, behind him, never loosening his grip, no matter how hard she tried to wriggle away.

He was trying to find the way outside. But he had gotten so twisted around in this place that he was at a complete loss. So he did the next best thing. He hid. He found a small room, dragged Mary inside with him, and barricaded the door with whatever he could find.

"This is madness!" she shrieked. "We must go and find them!"

"OH WILL YOU SHUT UP?" he growled at her.

Mary gasped and stared at him in horror. He had never risen his voice to her, not like this. They had had some…arguments, yes, but…this was entirely different.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he soothed, trying to make things better. The last thing he needed was to give his fiancée a reason to fly into Capt. Crawley's arms. "I…I didn't mean to shout, I'm just trying to think."

Mary's arms wrapped around herself, but she didn't say anything. She simply took a step back and stared at him with…cautiousness.

Wonderful.

"We can't go out there right now; it's too dangerous," he tried to reason.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Then when will we leave this room? Because we must leave it at some point!" she hissed.

Indeed, they must. And she had asked a most excellent question. A pity, though, he couldn't help but admit. The first time he had Mary Crawley entirely to himself without having to worry about a family member or servant walking in and interrupting them…and instead, he had to think of a way to escape.

"How large is this room?" Sir Richard asked, squinting through the shadows. There were some small windows high overhead, providing a little light, but the emphasis of that was the word, _little_.

"I don't know," Mary muttered. She looked around the room too…and reached out, touching what seemed to be…a shelf?

Mary hissed a curse as she nearly caused something on the shelf to topple over. "What is this place?" she asked.

Sir Richard remembered then that he had some matches in his pocket; he kept them for lighting cigars. He withdrew the matchbook and quickly lit one…and Mary gasped as she saw boxes and bottles lined up along every shelf that surrounded them.

"We've found it!" she gasped. "The medical supply storage room! This…this HAS to be it!"

If it wasn't, then indeed, what were all these items?

Sir Richard lit another match, and held it up close to one of the nearby shelves, trying to read the dust-covered labels. "I can barely make these out…" he muttered, peering closer.

"Give me your matches and let me have a look further back here," she demanded.

Sir Richard gave her a look. "I don't have that many."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Will it hurt for you to give me one?" she asked with a great deal of exasperation.

Sir Richard groaned, but lit a match and Mary took it. She turned the small flame towards a darkened corner…and let out a shriek and what she saw.

* * *

_Earlier…_

Matthew and Tom watched as the motley crew gathered near the front of the house. Sir Richard was making a show of the two pistols he had strapped to his belt. Mary was wearing perhaps the plainest dress Matthew had ever seen her wear, and Thomas…well, he was smoking what seemed to be his third cigarette. The only one who looked capable and prepared for anything was Anna.

"Believe me, I wish it were you joining me instead," he sighed, glancing over at the Irishman.

Tom couldn't help but chuckle and nod his head. "You'll be in my prayers."

Matthew laughed as well, and then sighed while having one last look at the collection of weapons that they would be taking with them. After the rather "eventful" morning in the breakfast room, Matthew went in search of Tom, who he was glad to see still remained on the house. The Irishman had spent the night in the chauffeur's cottage, his so-called "prison cell" for allowing Lady Sybil to join him the other day (at least that was how Carson had referred it). Matthew told Tom everything that had happened that morning, and how he was more or less being "forced" to take Sir Richard with him on his mission to the village. "I'm surprised they didn't insist you take me," Tom remarked after Matthew finished retelling the story. "I would think they'd be more than happy for some Walker to burst out from behind a building and eat me alive."

Despite the rather ghoulish image, Matthew did find himself laughing with Tom's joke. "I think, despite my cousin's temper, he would regret losing you more than he would care to admit, simply because you're probably the most competent 'soldier' we have in this whole bloody place."

Now it was Tom's turn to laugh. "Never heard anyone call me that before," he remarked, referring to Matthew's use of the word "soldier".

"I told you…we're all soldiers now, whether we accept it or not."

Even though Robert hadn't "officially" given his consent for everyone to be trained in how to use a weapon, Matthew wanted to take advantage of this moment of "consideration", and have everyone begin training _that_ day. "It might be a good thing, then, that you're staying here," he murmured later to Tom. "I trust you and William to see that everyone begins their training."

Tom shook his head. "It's going to be difficult, what with that old codger keeping watch," he muttered. Matthew knew Tom was referring to Carson. Indeed, he had a feeling that the butler would be a great deal more difficult to convince than Robert. Still, despite what Robert, Mary, and Carson wanted to believe…this wasn't the old world anymore; the threat of "being sacked" for so-called insurrection meant very little anymore. They were all equals now, trapped in the same nightmare.

"Leave him to Mrs. Hughes," Matthew assured. "If anyone can get Carson to come around, it's her. And I know she agrees me."

Which was very true, as the housekeeper gave Matthew the key to the attack, after he had informed her he wanted to search for anything that could be used as a weapon. Their search had been most fruitful, as not only did they find random household objects with various sharp points, but also a great deal of "old weaponry", packed away in trunks and boxes for who knows why, really. Matthew discovered an old cavalry sword, which he wasted no time in strapping to his belt alongside Reggie's pistol.

"Well," Tom said to Matthew, after they had put the last of the weapons they would be taking into the car's boot. "Don't die on me," he muttered under his breath. "You're the only sane one here, not to mention the only reason I'm staying."

Matthew chuckled…but gave his friend a look that told him he knew better. "I highly doubt that…" he whispered. "Or…I doubt I'm the _only_ reason."

Tom didn't say anything, although Matthew couldn't help but grin at the way the Irishman's face turned bright red. Would he have said such a thing to man society deemed as "below" his cousin's station, if none of this had occurred? He wasn't sure. While yes, he knew very well Tom had come from a working class background, he didn't see Tom as a "servant", and doubted he ever would. _We're all equals now, _he reminded himself.

"Are we going to be doing this _today_, Capt. Crawley?" Sir Richard asked in that snide way of his that made Matthew want to do nothing more than punch the man.

"Don't do anything stupid," Tom warned under his breath. "Like letting that git get the better of you."

Matthew muttered his thanks, and then climbed inside the car. Thomas sat in the passenger seat, while Sir Richard, Mary, and Anna were crammed in the back. Robert and Edith stood at the door, both of them wearing different expressions as Matthew lifted his hand in parting. Upstairs, looking out at a window was his cousin Cora, clinging to Violet and O'Brien, looking just as worried as Robert about Mary's going. Sybil still had yet to make an appearance. Also standing by Robert and Edith were both Carson and Mrs. Hughes, and just like his cousins, each of them held very different expressions.

Matthew turned once again and caught Tom's eye, who lifted his hand, before murmuring something that Matthew hoped was an Irish blessing. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Without another thought or word, he turned the key and then turned the car down the lane.

* * *

_Now..._

They were lost. Still. And running. "We've been down this corridor already!" Anna groaned.

Capt. Crawley was panting. "How can you be sure?"

Anna pointed to one of the few windows that was missing a board. "The view," she panted. "I recognize it; we've passed this window at least twice already."

Capt. Crawley groaned. "Good God, this building isn't that large, how can we be lost?"

Anna opened her mouth to respond, even though she didn't really have an answer to give…but was stopped short at the sudden sound of gunshots in the distance.

"Oh God!" she gasped, looking at Capt. Crawley in a panic.

"Mary…" was all she heard the man say. He withdrew his pistol, and turned to back the way they had come.

"Capt. Crawley, the Walkers—"

"We can't stay here!" he growled. "She may be in danger!"

"We don't know where those shots came from!"

"I don't care!" he shouted over his shoulder. "We have to—"

"LOOK OUT!"

A Walker lunged from the shadows at Capt. Crawley, and immediately wrestled him to the ground. Anna took her rifle and aimed it at the creature's head. The sound of a bullet pierced the air…

…But it had not come from Anna's rifle.

She looked up from where the shot had come from…and her eyes widened at what she saw. Meanwhile, Capt. Crawley was trying to push the dead creature off him, all the while muttering disgusted curses.

Then the body was rolled away by two large, strong hands…and now Capt. Crawley saw exactly what she was seeing.

_"Dr. Clarkson?"_


	18. Reunion

_I LIVE! Hello! It's been a nice, long Christmas break, but now it's time to return to a zombie-filled world where our favorite upstairs and downstairs Downtonians face off against a legion of the undead! Thanks so much for your patience, I hope this chapter pays off a little. I will be posting again, hopefully by the middle of the week, so stay tuned, MORE is on the way! But hopefully this will whet your pallet and get you hungry for more zombie-slaying action! THANKS FOR READING!_

* * *

_Chapter Eighteen_

"**Reunion"**

They were assembling on the lawn.

Tom watched from the doorway of the garage as William encouraged Daisy to take the pistol he was holding, and aim it straight ahead at some make-shift targets that both he and William had set up shortly after Matthew and his search party had left. To say that the kitchen maid looked reluctant to even be outside, let alone be trained in how to shoot, would be an understatement.

The girl only seemed to have come outside at the prodding of both the younger footman and the housekeeper, who was the only other person who had joined William in his training exercise. Tom sighed, looking down at the ground and shaking his head. Matthew hadn't been wrong; even though his Lordship had more or less reluctantly agreed to let this take place, his disapproval (and the disapproval of the Downton butler) had enough of a far-reaching effect that no one else was daring to take Matthew's advice.

_So…our so-called army is now going to consist of a wounded valet, a housemaid, two footmen, myself, Capt. Crawley, and now a housekeeper and kitchen maid, who looks more likely to turn and run screaming than to stand her ground and fight?_ They were doomed.

Why was he still there? Why wasn't he back on the main roads, searching for his brother? Well, he knew the answer to that. Despite how pathetic this all seemed, he knew Matthew was depending on him to help train these people in survival. And he would hate to let his new friend down now.

Tom ran a hand through his hair in frustration; Kieran was always warning him about letting himself get "close" to people. _"You're far too friendly and outgoing for your own good, Tommy,"_ his brother would chide him. _"Keep to yourself and your family; those are the only allies you ever need."_

That had certainly been the mantra he had kept with his brother during all their time in Liverpool. Tom never told Kieran he despised it, but he knew his brother was right to a point; closeness to others meant feeling "obligated" to help them. And in this harsh world, the only people who you could truly help…was yourself.

He shook his head and turned back to his task of tinkering with the engines of his Lordship's cars. Another thing his brother would chastise him for doing if he could see him. _"You're not even getting PAID, you daft fool!"_ Yes, he was a fool; he owed the Earl of Grantham nothing, and yet…well, he hated feeling guilty, even if he only had himself to blame for that. _Fix these engines, stay long enough for Matthew to return, and then…and then I'll go; I should have gone long before—who knows what's happened to Kieran, but I know he's alive, I can't explain it, but I know it's true, I—_

"You're still here…"

Tom froze, and then lifted his head so quickly out of the Renault's bonnet that he banged it on the lid. "FECKING HELL!" he cursed, his face turning red as he realized what he had just said…and in front of _her_.

"Oh!" she rushed forward then, her hand rising to where his own clutched his head. "I'm so sorry! Here, let me see—"

He turned to face her, and felt his heart stop…as she was standing so close, her face only a few inches away from his own, her arm practically around his neck in an effort to reach up and touch the throbbing bump on the top of his head.

They both stood still for what seemed like a tremendously long moment, and only jumped back by the sudden BANG of Daisy, firing the pistol. Now they were both red and Sybil was looking down at the ground, her hands running over her skirt as if trying to rid something that was on it, while he craned his neck to see if everything was alright on the yard where William was. Apparently so, as the footman was praising the kitchen maid for her shot, even though that very kitchen maid looked ready to faint away with fright.

"I…I was worried, I can't deny…"

Tom's attention immediately returned to Sybil. Worried? Why would she—oh God, he was such a git. "Are _you_ alright?" he asked, his eyes looking deeply into hers, searching her face for any signs of…well, he didn't think his Lordship would beat his own daughter, but Tom had seen some men do horrible things, both in England and his native Ireland; and if something like that had happened to her after their bloody return from the previous day, he would never forgive himself. He would never forgive his Lordship either, but he would ultimately blame himself in the end.

Sybil's eyes widened at his question, and Tom still remained tense, even after a beautiful smile began to spread across her face. "I'm fine, truly," she assured. She then leaned in, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and whispered, "They didn't chain me up in the dungeons, at least not this time," she teased.

A smile broke out across his face; he was grateful for the humor, although her words about being chained up brought an entirely new visual to his brain, and he swallowed the lump in his throat and quickly turned away, just slightly, wishing he had some cold water to drink just then to cool his throat…and his head from thinking things that would cause his mother to grab him by the ear, and drag him to the nearest confessional.

He felt her fingers on his arm, and his breath caught in his throat again, as he turned just slightly to meet her eyes. Was it his imagination? Or did her fingers…flex just slightly, as if…feeling the muscle in his bicep?

Her hand immediately fell away, as if she had touched a hot coal. "I um…" she looked down again and then back up at him, forcing a smile that looked a little nervous. "I um…well, I…as I was saying, I was worried."

He couldn't help but smile tenderly at this. "You weren't the only one," he chuckled. "I mean, I saw your father's anger, and…I can't blame him for being upset with me—"

"Oh no! No, it wasn't your fault! It was all mine," she insisted. She looked guilty then, and Tom felt his heart lift just a little. He couldn't recall the last time someone seemed to be genuinely…_concerned_…for him and his well-being. Not even his own brother. "I'm so sorry Branson for whatever Papa said—or Carson for that matter—"

"It's alright, milady," he chuckled, hoping the laugh in his voice would ease her guilt. "I've dealt with far worse…and besides, I can't say I blame your father entirely; I put his own daughter's life at risk, and I'm rather ashamed of myself for doing so."

She was shaking her head quite adamantly at his words. "No! No, please, don't be! I wanted you to teach me how to shoot, I…" she groaned and threw her hands up in the air. "It's absolutely ridiculous that Papa, or Mama, or even Carson can't see the practicality that we all know how to defend ourselves! I mean, if you hadn't taught me yesterday, and that horrible attack had happened—"

"Don't," he interrupted, not wanting to think about such a thing. If anything had happened to her—oh God, that truly would be unforgivable. "At least…at least his Lordship understands the practicality now," he added, forcing a smile and trying to wipe away that awful image of beautiful Sybil Crawley, dying at the hands of a monster and his own recklessness.

"Yes, I suppose," she murmured, more to herself than to him. He noticed how she turned her head to look out at Daisy and Mrs. Hughes, who was now being instructed on how to hold and fire the pistol. "I wish the others would try," she sighed.

He knew what she meant. The cook and that other housemaid, Ethel, had yet to make an appearance. Not to mention the lady's maid for her Ladyship, although he thought he remembered learning that Bates had taught her how to use a gun, so as to protect her Ladyship. Good God, of all the people in that house, she was the one he trusted the least.

"I was worried you wouldn't be here…"

Tom turned his attention back to Lady Sybil and felt that lump suddenly fill his throat again. "W-w-what?" he stammered, before quickly coughing as if he needed to clear his throat.

She smiled, just slightly, but it was enough to cause his insides to melt. "I was worried that…that Papa would cast you out, or something horrible like that," she looked down at the ground, her hands clasped behind her back. "Or…that you would leave of your own free will, without…without…"

He knew he shouldn't, and yet…he couldn't help himself, and took a step closer. "Without…?" he whispered.

She lifted her eyes and once again there they were, standing only a few inches apart, her eyes, large and blue with flecks of gray, gazing up into his. "Without saying goodbye," she whispered at last.

He looked down at her…and once again, found his eyes drifting all over her face…especially to her somewhat parted and very inviting lips. If he left…would she miss him? They were strangers, still; _and_ she was the daughter of an English Earl! And he was just…well, he was "nothing" in her world.

And yet…he had a feeling she would miss him.

He couldn't deny…_he_ would miss her.

Another gunshot filled the air, and both of them turned their heads in its direction, hearing Mrs. Hughes let out a mighty curse for the power of the shot…which was then quickly followed by a great, triumphant laugh for meeting her target. At least someone was happy.

Sybil turned her head back to look up at him, and Tom saw a light of mischief in her eyes. "Will you teach me how to shoot with the rifle?"

His eyes widened slightly at her request, and despite all the events that had happened yesterday (and the strange emotions that were raging through him now whenever he was in her presence) he couldn't help but grin at her enthusiastic eagerness. "You don't give up, do you?" he laughed.

Sybil seemed to take that as a compliment, and simply beamed up at him.

_God she's beautiful_, Tom found himself thinking for the millionth time since he met her. And God, he was being foolish to allow himself to…to…

"While they may not be out here observing William's teaching, I doubt his Lordship or Mr. Carson would approve of seeing you firing off a rifle—" She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly added, "—so soon after the events of yesterday."

She groaned and rolled her eyes, and once again, Tom found himself grinning at her. Lord, she was infectious.

"Papa wanted me restricted to the house," she muttered to him.

Tom lifted his eyebrows at this bit of news. "As punishment for yesterday?"

She nodded her head, but lifted her chin in defiance. "As soon as I heard, however, that both you and William would be giving lessons in defense, well, I felt my 'prison sentence' had come to an end."

Prison sentence. What a prison, too! Still, Tom couldn't scoff at this woman who came from a posh world where everything was done for her at the ring of a bell. No…Lady Sybil Crawley was not like others amongst her class. She wasn't like any woman he had ever met, period.

"So you…escaped?" he asked, arching a brow. He had a feeling that if his Lordship could have his way, she would still be locked away inside, never, perhaps, to emerge again, after the events of yesterday.

Sybil bit her lip, but began to giggle just a bit, looking a little guilty, as well as a little proud of herself. She then tried to look serious. "Well, I'm not a child—and besides, after everything you and I experienced yesterday, how can I sit by and do nothing? Cousin Matthew is right; a new sort of war is raging on, and I refuse to be a victim anymore!"

Tom would never call Sybil Crawley a victim, and he couldn't help but admire the passion in her voice as she took her stand. He also couldn't deny how it warmed his heart to hear her talk about the things _they_ had experienced—even if it was fighting for one's survival. Still, such battles could bring many people closer to one another. And he did feel a kinship with the Earl's youngest…

"So will you teach me?" she asked again.

He glanced towards the yard and then back down at her. "How about you show me again, everything you learned the other day with the pistol. And then, we'll move onto the rifle," he promised, smiling at the little pout she gave, tempted to lean in and kiss it—

"_GOOD GOD, TOMMY, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?"_ He didn't need his brother to be present to hear Kieran's voice rage at him for such thoughts. Perhaps Matthew was right; perhaps it wasn't just a feeling of obligation for the army captain that kept him at Downton.

No…he knew deep in his heart it wasn't.

"Very well," Sybil sighed, more for dramatics sake than because she was actually disappointed by his answer. "Perhaps Papa will see me and see how well I can manage?"

He forced a smile and nodded his head. He needed to stop thinking about her lips.

They both left the garage then, turning to join William and the others. Daisy was once again being encouraged to take a shot with the pistol, but she was wailing about how "this isn't right! I don't like this!" to William, who in turn kept saying, "You're doing well! Don't give up now, you'll hit it this time, I'm sure!"

Mrs. Hughes turned her head and noticed them, and Tom felt her eyes boring into him like two, hot, accusatory coals. While he was aware that the housekeeper was on "his side" when it came to the butler not trusting him, it was obvious to Tom that she held the youngest Crawley daughter in very high regard…and was prepared to fend off any man or Walker that tried anything.

"Lady Sybil!" William said with a smile. "Would you care to try hitting the target?"

Sybil returned the smile and eagerly took the pistol he held out for her. "I've had a bit of practice," she announced proudly, turning her gaze and smiling up at Tom. Tom swallowed and kept his eyes away from those of the housekeeper. Any minute now her father is going to come barging out here and demand to know what she's doing, he thought.

But it wasn't his Lordship who did that—no, it was Mr. Carson.

"Milady! I do not think that is wise!" Carson began protesting, suddenly appearing from a side door, looking very stern and holding a rifle against his side.

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, however she didn't have to; Mrs. Hughes was doing battle for her.

"Leave her be, Mr. Carson! Didn't you hear what Capt. Crawley said?"

The butler bristled. "I take my orders for his Lordship, the Earl of Grantham…_as do all of you!"_ he growled, his eyes meeting those of the housekeeper in a challenging stare.

"His Lordship gave us permission!" William spoke up, and then shrank back at Mr. Carson's frown.

"His Lordship gave permission for _the staff_," the butler hissed. "And while I confess, I do not agree entirely with this decision, I will obey it. However, it was made quite clear that Lady Sybil—"

"LADY SYBIL HAS JUST AS MUCH RIGHT AS I DO ABOUT LEARNING TO SHOOT AND DEFEND HERSELF AGAINST THOSE MONSTERS!" Mrs. Hughes all but shouted back at the butler, causing the others who were standing there to stare in horror…and wait for Carson's wrath to be unleashed.

Carson stared at Mrs. Hughes…his eyes wide and his face turning from red, to purple. Tom could see a vein throbbing. Matthew had been right; the only person who clearly could stand up to the old codger was the housekeeper!

Carson opened his mouth to retaliate…but was stopped short. His eyes narrowed and he looked past the small group gathered…towards the drive that led away from the house. Tom and the others also turned to see what the butler was staring at…and noticed a car—coming rather fast.

"Matthew?" Sybil whispered in surprise. "Yes…yes, I'm sure of it, that's Matthew's car!"

Tom's eyes narrowed a bit. That didn't look like Matthew driving. A sudden feeling of dread began to pool in his stomach…

"No…no, that's not Capt. Crawley," William murmured with a frown. "That's…Sir Richard?"

"Sir Richard?" Sybil asked, peering at the quickly approaching car. She turned and caught Tom's gaze, and that feeling of dread began to grow more and more. While Tom didn't know the history Matthew had with the Crawley family, you would have to be blind not to see the obvious disdain Matthew and Sir Richard Carlisle clearly held for one another. And Tom couldn't imagine Matthew willingly allowing Sir Richard to drive the car…unless…

_No; no, no, no, please don't you dare die on me,_ Tom thought to himself. _These people will drive me mad if you're around to help lead them!_

The car came to a screeching halt just a few paces away from them. William led the charge, and they all quickly rushed over to see Anna, Lady Mary, Sir Richard, and…another man? A man with silver hair and a matching moustache?

"Good Lord!" Sybil gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. _"Dr. Clarkson?"_

The silver-haired man Tom had just seen climbed out of the car, immediately following Anna. He paused at Sybil saying his name, and gave her a small smile, but to say that the man looked…uncomfortable…would be an understatement. "Nurse Crawley," he murmured to her.

"CLARKSON?"

All heads turned then to his Lordship, who came bursting out the front doors and striding across the drive to where the stranger—now Tom understood him to be a doctor—was standing. "Lord Grantham," the doctor murmured, bowing his head slightly.

"GOOD GOD, YOU'RE ALIVE?" Robert gasped, grabbing Dr. Clarkson by the shoulders. Right behind him came her Ladyship, Lady Edith, and Miss O'Brien, all three looking just as shocked at the sight of the mysterious doctor. But her Ladyship looked past Dr. Clarkson to Lady Mary, who was in the midst of a heated argument with Sir Richard.

"Alright, we've got him here now, can we please go back?"

"Are you mad? You can't be serious—"

"I'M PERFECTLY SERIOUS! How can you stand there and refuse when a man's life is at—"

"MARY!"

The younger woman's words were cut off by her Ladyship pushing past Sir Richard and embracing her eldest daughter. "Oh my darling! I was so worried! So worried!" her Ladyship practically sobbed into her daughter's hair. Lady Mary looked a little embarrassed by the sudden burst of emotion from her mother (as well as perhaps a little frustrated and annoyed at Sir Richard) but she returned her mother's embrace, quickly murmuring a few reassuring words that she was alright, that she hadn't been hurt.

Tom however noticed one thing—two things, actually that were wrong. "Where's Matthew?" he demanded. He didn't care that he was using a harsh tone in speaking to people who were deemed "above" him. That world didn't exist anymore. "Where's Capt. Crawley?"

"And Thomas!" Miss O'Brien added, her eyes flying to those of Anna's and the doctor. "He…he wasn't…?"

Sir Richard groaned, but gave a quick clear of his throat before facing the panicked looking crowd in front of him. "There was an attack at the hospital," he began, but right away the crowd gasped and began asking a million questions all at once.

"AN ATTACK?"

"WAS ANYONE HURT?"

"DID SOMETHING HAPPEN TO MATTHEW AND THOMAS?"

"WAS THIS WHERE YOU WERE FOUND, DR. CLARKSON?"

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL THIS TIME, DR. CLARKSON?"

"PLEASE!" Sir Richard bellowed, trying once again to regain control and attention. He glanced at Mary, who was glaring back at him, before turning his attentions once again to everyone else. "In the midst of the panic, we were separated," Sir Richard explained. "Capt. Crawley and Anna eventually found myself and Lady Mary—"

"Oh my," Lady Edith murmured, eyeing her sister. Mary just sent her sister an icy glare.

"But Sgt. Barrow was still missing," Sir Richard continued. "So…Capt. Crawley ordered the rest of us to return, with Dr. Clarkson, and he would stay behind to search for Sgt. Barrow."

The way the newspaperman spoke was as if he were delivering a list of orders to a grocer. Tom stared at the man with a look of utter disbelief and horror. Matthew was back there…wandering some building filled with Walkers…_by himself?_

Robert stared at Dr. Clarkson in confusion. "But…but why…or how, I should say…did they come across you?"

"Oh does that matter now, Papa?" Mary groaned, looking ready to scream at any second. "We have to go back and get Matthew! NOW!"

"You are not going anywhere," Sir Richard hissed, grabbing her arm and holding her firm and fast. "You're staying right here, and that's final!"

"I'm going."

Everyone turned and stared at Tom as he uttered the words.

"Branson—" Sybil began, but Mrs. Hughes reached forward and grasped her shoulders, as if holding her back from doing what Lady Mary was trying to convince Sir Richard to let her do.

Tom lifted his chin and met Sir Richard's gaze. "Give me the keys. I'll go."

"ME TOO!" William announced, pushing his way forward and looking determined.

"William!" Daisy hissed, as did both Carson and Mrs. Hughes, but William shook his head, refusing to listen.

"Capt. Crawley needs me; I'll go with Mr. Branson and we'll both bring him back."

"_And_ Thomas!" Miss O'Brien muttered, looking ready to spit fire as she glared at the lot of them.

William simply nodded his head. "We'll bring Capt. Crawley _and_ Sgt. Barrow back; that's a promise."

Tom wished he had William's confidence, but now was not the time to think about such things. Matthew had stood up and fought for him—now it was time to return the favor.

"Well?"

Both Tom and William looked at Lady Mary, thinking she was addressing them, but in truth…it was Sir Richard whom she was glaring at.

"Well what?" he muttered under his breath.

"Aren't you going with them?" she hissed in irritation.

Tom was beginning to understand why Matthew didn't like Sir Richard. He had barely any interaction with the newspaperman, but in the short time he had listened to him talk and seen his face, he knew, perhaps now more than ever, that not only did not care for Sir Richard Carlisle…but that he also didn't trust him.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Sir Richard answered, not looking at either William or Tom in the eye, just somewhere in their general direction, as some posh people had a tendency to do. Tom wasn't surprised by this, and it was clear that the man was a coward. Yet at the same time, he was grateful; he'd rather have the kitchen maid guarding his back than Sir Richard.

"Let's go," he murmured to William. He lifted his eyes then to Lady Mary, who was still looking anxious. While a majority of the little interaction he had had with the eldest Crawley daughter hadn't been the most pleasant, he could recognize worry—and it was quite clear to him that she cared a great deal for Matthew. "I'll bring him back, milady, I promise."

"And Thomas too!" William added, more to keep Miss O'Brien happy, who was still glaring at the pair of them.

"Be careful, William!" Daisy called, but despite the concern in her voice and eyes, William couldn't help but grin at her, his chest puffing out just slightly with pride.

"Yes, do be careful," Sir Richard muttered. "There's a madman in that place."

Tom frowned and stared up at Sir Richard in confusion. "A madman?"

Sir Richard nodded his head. "Some brute that attacked both Lady Mary and myself in a supply room, where we were hiding."

Tom's eyes widened at this information. Suddenly, a new thought dawned on him. "What did he look like? This madman, tell me; what did he look like?"

Sir Richard frowned and backed away from the car. "I don't know! Like…like some madman! He had a weapon of some kind and looked ready to attack us, so I fired my gun at him; missed him completely, and he staggered back and stole down some hidden passage; just be careful is all I'm trying to say."

_Kieran?_

Was it possible? Was his brother _that_ close? Seeking refuge in the village hospital? Oh God, how long had he been there? What if…what if he had been injured and that was why he had gone there in the first place?

"Come on, Mr. Branson," William urged. "We don't want to waste any daylight!"

No…no, not at all. But now Tom had another person to find…and he was more determined now than ever before.

* * *

Matthew held his rifle steady…as he carefully moved around another darkened corner of the hospital. His senses were on high alert. He couldn't very well raise his voice and shout out for Thomas, for fear it would attract more Walkers. But at the same time, he could be walking these mazes of hospital hallways for hours and hours if he remained completely silent. A part of him was regretting letting Anna return with Mary and Sir Richard; yet now that they had found Dr. Clarkson, and now that Mary had found the morphine, how could he not let Anna return with them to help Bates? And it was important she, and Mary for that matter, return safely. After all, that was why Mary had come in the first place, to help Anna. Now that the medicine had been gathered (and they had a doctor to boot), there was no reason for Mary to stay. So when Sir Richard suggested they return at once, Matthew didn't hesitate. He urged the man to take Anna, Mary, and Dr. Clarkson back to the house, and he would stay behind to find Thomas.

Naturally, Mary tried to argue with him.

_"ARE YOU MAD? You can't stay here by yourself!"_

_ "Take Anna and Dr. Clarkson and go!"_

_ "No! Someone needs to stay with you, to help!" she glanced at Sir Richard then. "Take Anna and Dr. Clarkson back to Bates."_

_ Anna gasped. "Milady—"_

_ "Out of the question!" Sir Richard growled. "If you think I'm going to leave my fiancée here, with these monsters and a madman running about—"_

_ "I'll stay, milady," Anna suggested, but Mary shook her head. _

_ "No, no, you go back to Bates, Anna; tell Dr. Clarkson everything. He'll help put Bates on the mend, properly now."_

_ "You're not staying."_

_ Mary stared up at him, shocked that it was his voice arguing with her and not Sir Richard's. While Matthew couldn't stand her fiancée, on this, they were in agreement._

_ "You're going to back with Anna and that's that," he lifted his eyes then to Sir Richard. "After you take them back, come back here and wait outside, yes?"_

_ "Of course," Sir Richard murmured, although Matthew noticed how the newspaperman wouldn't meet his eyes. Yes, now more than ever, Matthew was wishing Tom had come with him instead._

Mary tried to argue further, but with the help of both Sir Richard and Anna, they managed to pull her away, and leave him there…wandering the village hospital halls, trying to find the former footman.

Matthew glanced at the crowd with each step that he made. He was searching for a blood trail, something he both hoped to find, and dreaded to see. It could lead him to Thomas; however what would he find if it did? Would he have the strength to shoot the staff-sergeant if the need arose? Oh God, he prayed it wouldn't come to that.

A sound suddenly caught his ears, and he whipped his head around to it. "Barrow?" he hissed, breaking his own vow of silence, but the truth was he would rather face a hungry Walker than continue wandering in this darkened maze, wondering if Thomas was there or not. Matthew cocked the rifle and was prepared to burst around the corner and fire if necessary. "Barrow?" he hissed again, raising his voice a little louder.

He heard a cough.

But it wasn't a man's cough.

A woman? A Walker? Did Walkers cough? "Show yourself," Matthew growled. "I have a rifle and I will fire—unless you come around that corner, _slowly_…"

He heard the woman's breathing suddenly quicken. "Reveal yourself!" he ordered, prepared to fire if necessary.

But he didn't fire. He was too stunned to believe what, or rather…_who_, he was seeing.

Good God in heaven, what…how…?

"Hello, Capt. Crawley," she whispered, as a shaft of light from a boarded up window fell across her face and the frying pan she was holding in one of her hands.

Matthew could hardly breathe. _"Lavinia?"_

* * *

_DON!DON!DON! Were you expecting that? :oP _

_Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!_


	19. Rescue

_This is a little later than I had hoped, due to multiple things, but here it is at last! And I'm already planning out the next chapter, and will be updating this before touching anything else, so be on the lookout! The action begins to pick up again here, not to mention a few bits of *~*drama*~* are thrown in, adding a thickening texture to the plot. Hope you enjoy and thanks so much for reading! ALSO, I'm dedicating this chapter queenlovett and shana rosee, both of whom had watched "Tangled" recently, and said Rapunzel reminded them of Lavinia :oP you'll see more "frying pan" action in this chapter! And without further ado..._

* * *

_Chapter Nineteen_

"**Rescue"**

Tom stopped the car a small distance from the hospital; if what Sir Richard had said was true, that there were Walkers all over the place, the last thing he wanted was to draw their attention to the sound of an engine. William leapt out and immediately went to the boot, taking a rifle and some extra bullets, as well as strapping one looked like one of Mrs. Patmore's best kitchen knives to his belt. Tom lifted his eyebrows at this. "Does she know you have that?"

William looked at the knife and then back up at Tom, smiling rather sheepishly. "She will soon enough," he confessed.

Tom shook his head, before taking his own weapons from the boot. "Just be sure to bring it back—clean; or else your hide may be what's on the menu at supper tonight."

William chuckled, but then grew serious as they approached the hospital entrance. They listened first, not wanting to barge in and be set upon by a horde of Walkers. No sound. Tom was the first to peek around the corner, and nodded his head back at William, who entered behind him, deathly silent.

Tom looked up and down the various corridors of the hospital. It wasn't a huge building, certainly not like the hospitals he had seen in Dublin, or Liverpool. But thanks to all the windows being boarded up, it was difficult to see inside…and very easy, he could imagine, to become confused and lost. "We stay close," Tom hissed. "We don't need to lose another man." William silently nodded his head, and covered Tom's back, his rifle loaded and ready for whatever lay ahead.

* * *

The doctor who had returned with them was visiting Robert's valet, along with Lady Sybil and the blonde housemaid his fiancée was so fond of. Robert wanted answers to a million questions—in truth, they all wanted answers, but Cora was the voice of sense and reason, as usual, and somehow managed to convince Robert to "ease back" and let Dr. Clarkson do what he could for Bates, first. Now, they were all gathered in the drawing room, waiting for the doctor to return; Robert was pacing back and forth, looking extremely agitated, and no amount of scolding from either his mother or his wife seemed to do any good. Edith was sitting beside Cora, pouring tea and attempting to make small talk to "ease" the tension. His fiancée wasn't paying attention to any of them…she was too busy staring out the window, the one that faced the road.

_She's waiting for him…_

Richard looked down at his tea cup, silently grinding his teeth. He wished it was something stronger—much, stronger. He was tempted to go and ask Robert for the brandy decanter from the library, but instead, chose to place his cup down on a nearby table and walk over to his fiancée.

"Standing there won't do you any good," he murmured under his breath. "Nor will it bring them back any faster; it's best that you—"

"I can't believe you refused to go back!" she turned on him and hissed, her eyes dark and furious. "I can't believe you left him there in the first place!"

"Capt. Crawley insisted we leave!" he hissed back, his eyes darting around and behind him, hoping no one, especially her parents, were overhearing them. Not wanting to take the risk, his fingers gripped her arm and he pulled her out of the room into the hall. Mary glared at him, but did not try and stop him. Once they were away from the prying ears of her family, he continued his defense. "Capt. Crawley is a capable soldier; he knows what he's doing—"

"We abandoned him!" Mary hissed, anger lit in her eyes…as well as worry. Richard did not care for that.

"So you would have perfectly fine if Capt. Crawley had returned, and we had left the footman behind?"

Her eyes widened in shock as his question. "Of course not!"

Richard wasn't finished though; his hands gripped the lapels of his jacket, as if he were addressing a boardroom. "And what about your 'precious Anna'? Wasn't _that_ the reason you insisted on coming in the first place? Wasn't that _the point_ of this so-called mission? To find medicine for Bates, to ease Anna's worries? Well look, we did even better! We found a doctor to bring back with us! I would think you would be ecstatic—"

"Oh stop it!" she groaned, looking extremely vexed with him. "Of course I'm glad we found Dr. Clarkson—and I'm very glad for Bates' sake, as well as Anna's! But…but we still shouldn't have left him—or rather, YOU should have gone back with both William and Tom!"

Richard lifted a brow at this. "_Tom?_ So now you're on a first-name basis with the chauffeur just like Capt. Crawley?"

She rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. "You promised Matthew you would come back for him after you brought Dr. Clarkson back for Bates!"

"I promised that _someone_ would come back for him—I never said specifically it would be myself! And both the footman and the chauffeur have far more experience at fighting those things than I am—and '_too many cooks spoil a soufflé'_."

Mary stared at him as if he had just said the maddest thing in the world. "Do you…do you have any idea what you are saying?"

He was losing his patience—no, he had no more patience. His patience had snapped the second he saw her standing by that window, waiting for her cousin's return.

"Alright, I'll tell you the truth," he growled. "I didn't go back because I knew that if I did, you would _insist_ on coming! Because you can't leave it alone, can you?"

She stared at him in both confusion and disbelief. "What? I…I don't know what you're—"

"Oh please," he muttered. "Do not insult my intelligence, or your own. I know that you once cared for Matthew Crawley—I know that before the War he asked for your hand and you even considered accepting it. But despite all that, I didn't think I had to…worry…about the two of you."

Her face went absolutely pale at his words…and then the blush of guilt began to quickly color her cheeks. "What did you say?"

He took a step closer, practically cornering her against the wall. "You still care for Capt. Crawley…"

"Oh don't be absurd!"

"It was never plainer to me than when you tried to argue about staying with him—"

"Only because someone should have stayed with him! You were the only other person who could drive that car—"

"I think you're still in love with him."

She looked as if he had struck her. Truly, she actually flinched at his words.

He took another menacing step forward. "Are you going to deny it?"

She glared at him. "I _do not_ love Matthew!"

"Then why the insistence on going in the first place?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because I promised An—"

"Anna, yes, I know, that was your official reason, but there's more to it than that. I've seen the way you look at him when he's in the room. I saw your face on the day he arrived, miraculously 'back from the dead'—you hardly ever look at me like that."

"I'm finished with this conversation," she growled, and tried to shove past him, but he wasn't going to allow it. Richard grasped her arm and held her fast, squeezing to the point that she was wincing in pain. "Unhand me! You're hurting me!"

"Trust me, this pain is nothing compared to that of a broken heart or wounded pride," he snarled.

She glared up at him. "A man has to have a heart in order for it to be broken," she hissed.

He cocked an eyebrow at this. "Strange; I could say the same for you."

She tugged her arm again, but he continued to hold her firmly. "Now you listen to me!" his face was mere inches away from hers. "There may not be a newspaper for me to report your scandalous story about the whole Pemuk affair to, but I _will_ use all the power I have to destroy you if you cross me or try to humiliate—"

His words were cut short by the vicious slap he received across the face, the sound echoing around the hall.

"What's going on?"

Both he and Mary turned their heads to see Edith standing in doorway of the drawing room, looking at the both of them. He couldn't tell by her expression how much she had heard, or witnessed, but it unnerved him, he could not deny; Lady Edith was far sneakier than any eavesdropping housemaid.

Mary gave one final tug on her arm, and his grip immediately fell away. For once, Lady Mary was grateful for her sister's interference.

She didn't bother to look at him, she simply walked away, and muttered while passing her sister, "I'm going to go and see how Bates is doing."

No more words were exchanged. The issue, at least for the moment, was closed. Richard watched her retreating figure; he straightened his back, smoothed his jacket, and kept his eyes on her while ignoring the sting on his cheek.

Yes, the issue was closed for the time being. But he had no qualm in reopening it again, if and when the situation presented itself.

* * *

There was a horrible smell filling his nostrils.

And his head hurt. His head hurt…a lot.

"Are we beginning to wake?"

The voice sounded distant…but…very close as well.

He tried to open his eyes…but the throbbing in his head was making it difficult. His face twisted with pain, and tried to move his hands to touch his forehead…but suddenly realized…he couldn't move them?

His eyes flew open then, and despite the sharp pain in his forehead, he jerked his body…and realized he couldn't move.

He couldn't move his hands. Or his arms. Or his legs, for that matter. He looked down his body and realized that a thick rope was tied around his ankles. And looking up, just slightly, he saw his wrists encased in two iron manacles, attached to the wall. He was sitting on the floor, his legs tied in front of him, his arms suspended overhead, and…and he was in…a cage?

No…not a cage. A jail cell.

And he wasn't alone.

"Well…my good friend is awake at last!" cried a merry voice. Only the merriment sent chills down his spine.

He tugged on his wrists, but they wouldn't budge. He tried to lift his legs, tried to kick them out…but they were weak. And his head…good God in heaven, his head felt as if someone had hit him with a mallet!

"Ah ah ah, I wouldn't try to do that if I were you; you don't want to cause further harm to yourself than you have already encountered…"

He knew that voice. Perhaps that was what chilled him the most, that he knew this person. And it was someone he thought he would never encounter again…

"Besides, we have so much to catch up on!" the voice said with a bit of a chuckle. "So much to catch up on…" it repeated. "It would be rude to leave now…"

He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. "W-w-who are you?" he stammered, trying his hardest to keep his voice even.

"Who am I?" there a certain…familiar accent…to that voice. It wasn't a voice he had heard lately, but the accent was one he had heard a great deal, at least over the last few days...

"Now you've gone and wounded my pride, Thomas…" the voice sighed in mocked sorrow. "Especially since I remember you…"

_Irish._

The accent was Irish.

Thomas tried to swallow the nervous lump in his throat; it was making it difficult to breathe.

He watched, chained and helpless…as the owner of the voice whose face he could not see in the shadows of the prison cell took one of the lit candles…and slowly approached him, until the light was right in front of him…and the face of his captor was illuminated.

"It's me, Thomas…your old friend, Kieran Branson."

_Branson. _

BRANSON?

It…it couldn't be…it wasn't possible!

Yes. Oh God, he remembered the Irishman now. But…he had no idea who he was, or rather, who he was related to until…until now…

"Perhaps you don't remember me because you left before we really got to know each other…"

He kept tugging on the manacles, despite the knowledge that he knew it was no use.

"It was harrowing, if I recall—those things coming at you from all sides. You, cornered in that ally…but luckily I was there. I was there and I saved your arse…and now I've done it twice."

Thomas stopped his struggles and stared at him. Twice?

Kieran simply nodded, and without warning, reached out and touched the swollen lump on his head. "This isn't my handiwork," he explained. "I found you, actually; lying face down on some corridor. And those things were everywhere…not to mention a few other things with guns," he muttered. "I stumbled across you, actually…and when I realized who you were…well, I had to save you! I mean, you're my friend, aren't you Thomas? That's what you told me, if I remember. You told me we were friends, that I could _trust_ you…" Thomas held his breath as Kieran Branson got closer, his face only a few inches away, his blue eyes lit with a dark fire that sent a chill down his spine. "But you have a funny way of showing…trust, Thomas."

"Release me…" he muttered, trying to sound far braver than he felt.

Kieran lifted a brow at this. "Hmmm…well, I'd consider it…if I knew I could trust you…as you apparently promised me…" he chuckled, rather darkly. "I mean…what sort of man would…try to steal a car, something he doesn't even know how to drive, mind you, from another man at a petrol station, just after he's refilled it? What sort of man would…wrestle the wheel away from the driver, when he managed to get control of the car? And then after crashing, drag him to some…I'm not even sure what it was that I woke up in, other than it stank and smelled of corpses, but still…what sort of man would leave the other to rot and become prey to those thing? Does that sound like a _trustworthy_ man to you, Thomas?"

Thomas didn't dare speak. Especially as Kieran brought the flame of the candle closer and closer to his face.

"And yet here I am…even after all that, here we both are…and I've rescued you twice."

Had he? Thomas was starting to think he had better odds with the Walkers.

"Mr. Branson—"

A bark of laughter escaped the Irishman's throat. "_MR._ Branson? Lord, my mother would love to hear you calling me that…" he chuckled.

Thomas ignored the Irishman's sarcasm. "I'm sorry for—"

"NO!" Kieran barked, only this time it was a very harsh sound, and Thomas cringed as the candle nearly touched his skin. He was whimpering as the intense heat of the tiny flame threatened his eyelashes. He didn't dare move—the man was mad enough to do it!

"No…" Kieran growled, his voice calmer, but he still held the candle dangerously close. "Your time for talking is over. The only words I'm interested in hearing you say are the words that answer my questions. Understand?"

Thomas' eyes were squeezed tightly closed, and he was biting down on his lip so hard to keep from screaming, that he was sure he could taste blood. "Y-y-yes…" he managed to say.

"Good…" Kieran muttered, leaning back just slightly from Thomas, but not bothering to move the candle. "Now, tell me, my _friend_…where's my car?"

* * *

"Mr. Branson!"

Tom stopped and turned back to William, who was examining something on the ground.

"What is it?"

William looked up, his expression a little…uneasy. "Blood…" he murmured.

Tom went over to where William was now kneeling, and peered down at the dark stain on the ground. It wasn't much…but there was no denying that yes, indeed, it was blood. And it looked fairly fresh…

"There's more…" William whispered, pointing ahead. Tom followed the direction of William's finger and saw a few more droplets. He squinted as he followed the trail, William close at his heels.

"And it continues…" Tom murmured. "As if…whomever it belonged to was wounded…"

William paused and looked behind him. He frowned and went back to the original place where he found the blood. Were there any signs of struggle? Any boot tracks or shoe marks, anything that indicated two or more people fighting? "They couldn't have been wounded here…" William whispered out loud to himself. "If they had been stabbed or bitten or anything, there would be more…" he looked down at the original stain, and then looked beyond it, in the opposite direction…and sure enough, he saw some more.

He quickly moved to observe it…and then noticed a little more, further down. It was coming from a corridor he hadn't observed before.

Meanwhile, Tom was following it in the other direction. It stopped, right outside what looked like to be some sort of…door. "William, look at—" Tom turned his head, but his voice faded instantly as soon as he realized…William wasn't behind him.

"William?" he called again.

No answer.

He gripped his rifle a little tighter, a feeling of dread filling his stomach_. No…no, no, no this was not happening!_

"WILLIAM!" he hissed…but there was no response.

Other than a groan…

And it wasn't human…

* * *

Matthew stared at her.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't believe his eyes!

The last time he saw her, was outside the small, brick London bungalow that she and Reggie were occupying while "biding their time", until Reggie finished whatever business he had to finish. He remembered asking her to come with him. He remembered feeling incredibly guilty for leaving both her and Reggie behind.

…He remembered the strange stirring in his heart that her pretty smile had caused.

"W-w-what…" he swallowed, trying to control the stammer in his voice. "What…what are you…?"

"Forgive me, Capt. Crawley…but do you mind…?"

He realized then that he was still pointing the rifle at her head. Matthew immediately lowered the gun and took a trembling step towards her. "Lavinia? What…how…?"

She smiled at him, just as he remembered. The light that fell across her face revealed dirt-covered cheeks that had the clear markings of tear stains. But right now, she smiled…and it was just as beautiful as he remembered.

"You're here…" she whispered, her voice trembling as if she were about to cry again. "I…I can't believe I found you…"

Nor could he. In truth, he feared he would never see her again! That when he had left London, he had delivered a death sentence. But…here she was. Alive and…holding her blessed frying pan just as she had done the day he had met her.

"My God…" he closed the distance between them, dropping the rifle on the ground and reached out to grasp her shoulders, his hands then traveling up to her face to cup it and run his fingers over her cheeks. "My God…you're here!"

She was blushing—he could feel her cheeks grow hot beneath his fingers. She was smiling and laughing as well, despite the tears that began to fall from her eyes. "Yes…" she whispered, gazing up at him, her hands moving up to cover his. "Yes, I…I'm here, and I found you, at last…"

Matthew looked down at her in wonder, simply…amazed. There were no other words to describe what he was feeling other than amazement.

"Where's your father?" he asked, lifting his head and looking down the darkened corridor, as if expecting to see Reggie emerge from the shadows at any moment.

The sound of Lavinia's breath catching drew Matthew's eyes back to her face. The beautiful smile of relief that had greeted him quickly melted away, replaced now with a look of utter despair.

Matthew stiffened. _No…oh no…_

She didn't say anything to confirm his fears; she didn't have to. He could see it all on her face. Without another word, Matthew enfolded her, drawing her head to his shoulder, and murmuring words of comfort, or attempting to do so, despite the fact that he wanted to cry as well. Reggie had been like a second-father to him; ironic that both his father and Lavinia's shared the same name. Their time together had been brief, but still…Matthew owed his life to Reggie. He would never forget the man, ever.

Lavinia clutched at him, her hands around his waist, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as she sobbed against his shoulder. Good Lord, how long had she been traveling? How many days had she spent, alone on the road, with only a frying pan to defend herself? And how long had she been looking? How long would she have looked? Or rather, how long would she have survived on her own like this? _Probably longer than I would have,_ he thought to himself. She had been doing this for a much longer time than himself.

"They…they…" she sniffled, attempting to speak. "They…they got my…my…"

Matthew coaxed her to bring her face away from his shoulder so he could hear her properly. "Your what?"

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her emotions. "My horse," she whispered. And then her face crumpled again, and she began to sob anew.

Oh God. That meant…she had been traveling by foot, to this point?

"When did this happen?" he asked, attempting to run his hand in soothing circles up and down her spine.

She sniffled and lifted her face slightly. "Two days ago," she whispered. "Just outside the village…" she took a deep, steadying breath. "I…I had stopped for the night; I had found shelter in what appeared to be an old barn. I…I thought we would be safe; I didn't see many Walkers after I left London, but…but they found us, and…and—"

"Shhh…it's alright," he whispered. It wasn't alright, he knew that Lavinia was far from alright, but it was the only thing he could think of saying to calm her, so he murmured the words several times, until she seemed to once again have her emotions under control.

"I…I thought…I thought maybe there would be supplies to gather in the hospital, so when I wandered into the village yesterday, I sought it out. But…but there were Walkers everywhere…so…so I tried to find a place to hide—but then I heard gunshots, and…and I didn't know what to do, I wanted to cry out and ask for help, but at the same time I didn't know if you were friend or foe, and a woman on her own can't be too careful—"

"You are very wise, and very brave," Matthew reassured, smiling down at her, hoping to lift her spirits just a little with his words. "And I'm glad it turned out to be friends you discovered."

She did smile at this, and quickly began to wipe her eyes. "Me too."

He returned her smile, and realized then that his arms were still around her, and suddenly felt his own cheeks flood with color. However, a sound in the distance suddenly had both him and Lavinia on edge, and he swore under his breath as he realized his rifle was on the ground a few feet away from him. He turned to retrieve, but Lavinia was faster; she lifted her frying pan overhead, prepared to smash it against whatever came around that corner, when Matthew lifted his eyes, just in time to see, and shouted, "DON'T SHOOT TOM!"

The Irishman had his rifle cocked and aimed at Lavinia just as he came around the corner, but hearing Matthew's cry caused him to pause, turn and look and see his friend…and then Matthew winced, as Lavinia's pan made contact with the Irishman's head.

"FECKING CHRIST!" Tom groaned, stumbling backwards in a daze.

Lavinia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, and she began to apologize, realizing now of course that it wasn't a Walker but a man—a man to whom Matthew knew—that had come around the corner…and who she had struck.

_Poor Tom_, Matthew sympathized. Clearly Lavinia was the more dangerous of the two. "Sorry about that old chap," Matthew apologized, moving past Lavinia who had been waved away by Tom (probably for the best) and going to help his friend up, who had stumbled onto his backside.

"Matthew?" Tom asked. His eyes looked a little cross. Good God, how hard had Lavinia hit him? "Why are…why are there two of you?"

Too hard.

"Come on," Matthew muttered, reaching down and offering a supportive shoulder for his friend to lean on. "Stay awake, I don't know if I have the strength to carry you out of here," he attempted to joke, although there was a great deal of truth to his words.

"I'm so sorry! I…I thought—"

"It's alright, Lavinia," Matthew reassured. But it wasn't alright. He just realized that while Tom had come back for him (which he was extremely grateful) and while he had stumbled upon and been reunited with Lavinia (which he was also extremely grateful for) he hadn't managed to do the very thing he had stayed behind to do…which was find Thomas.

"We need to get him back to the car," he told Lavinia. Assuming, of course, that they found the way out of this maze. "Tom, did you come by yourself?"

Tom was trying to shake his head to keep his eyes open and focused…but he winced with every movement. Matthew did not envy the headache he knew Tom would have after such a blow; it caused the old lump on the back of his own head to throb.

"N-n-no…" Tom muttered. "William…"

William? Tom and William had come? Was that all? Lord, he prayed Mary hadn't insisted on coming with them, but he wouldn't have been surprised if she had—she was that stubborn, and it was clear she was upset by the idea of him sending her away. "William and who else?"

"Just…just…just William," Tom managed to say, still looking dazed and tired.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised that Sir Richard hadn't come with them. He had a feeling that if Sir Richard Carlisle could have his way, no one would have come back for him. Not that the house wasn't within an easy walking distance. Of course…walking back to Downton Abbey while hungry Walkers roamed the area…that was not a walk he cared to take.

"Alright, let's get you back to the car—"

"Thomas?" Tom managed to ask, trying to focus his eyes on Matthew.

"No, not yet," Matthew sighed.

Lavinia looked confused. "Thomas?"

Matthew nodded. "A member of our…our supply party," he explained. There was a great deal to explain for Lavinia. She had moved around to Tom's other side, and offered her own shoulder for support as well. Perhaps between the two of them, they would manage to get Tom back to the car. "We were separated during an attack," he continued. "I volunteered to stay behind to find him."

"W-W-W-William…" Tom muttered.

That's right! Tom had said he had come with William but…where was the lad?

"We…we got separated," Tom groaned. "I…I don't know what happened, but…we…we…I heard Walkers, and…"

"It's alright, don't worry, we'll find him," he tried to reassure, although inwardly, Matthew was groaning in frustration. So now he would be looking for TWO footmen from Downton Abbey?

"Matthew," Lavinia's voice drew him out of his thoughts. "This…Thomas…what…what did he look like?"

"He's tall; not a giant, mind you, but at least tall as me. Black hair, blue eyes—"

"Oh no…"

Matthew began to panic at her words. Lord, he couldn't support Tom _and_ shoot/fight walkers at the same time!

But Lavinia didn't seem to be referring to any on coming Walker. Instead, she looked…guilty.

"What?" Matthew asked, almost afraid to learn the truth.

"I um…I think I met him, this 'Thomas'," she murmured, looking rather embarrassed.

Matthew's brow furrowed…and then he looked down at Lavinia's weapon of choice. Oh God in heaven; Lavinia truly had proven herself to be a force that no one should attempt to reckon with.

* * *

He was lost.

William cursed himself for his idiocy. He had allowed his curiosity with the blood he had discovered on the ground to get the better of him. He had gone in the opposite direction, curious to see where it had originally come from…and had gotten himself separated from Mr. Branson.

Capt. Crawley would not approve of such behavior. His misconduct was the sort that would result in a great deal of lecturing from a superior officer. And William couldn't help but feel ashamed. He knew better; he knew better than to simply "wander off" into unknown enemy territory, but that was exactly what he had done.

And now he was lost.

The blood trail he had followed didn't lead him to the source, as he thought it would. No…in fact, it turned out that the "source" must have in the opposite direction, the direction which Mr. Branson had gone. Instead, the trail William followed continued down an unusual passageway…one that seemed to go down deep…into the bowels of the hospital, almost like…an underground catacomb.

It was too dark to see anything on the ground. If there was any blood to follow, he would never know. He should have gone back, he should have turned around and hoped to find Mr. Branson again, but…somehow, he had gotten himself turned around, and he wasn't sure which direction it was that he had come. And it was so dark down here…and it smelled of…God, he didn't want to think about what it smelled like (or what could cause such smells), so he continued moving…hoping that he would find some sort of exit, and fast…

Well, his prayer was answered…sort of.

William's ears perked up, at the sound of…voices?

Yes! Yes, he could hear voices up ahead! He picked up his pace a little, but still remained cautious, one hand holding the rifle, the other on the handle of Mrs. Patmore's kitchen knife.

"Please, please, I…I don't have the car on me! I'm sorry! It's not here, it's—OOOW!"

William froze as he listened to the voice. The person—a man—was…crying. More than just that, he was begging, practically. Begging for…release? Because by the howl of pain he had just heard, it sounded as if…he were being tortured!

William picked up his pace, his hands gripping his weapons, prepared to use them to stop the torturer if need be.

"Don't be such a baby," another voice growled. "It's just a bit of candle wax! Look, it cools off right away!"

"I CAN TAKE YOU THERE!"

A pause filled the space up ahead; William paused too, not wanting his footsteps to be the thing that the torturer heard.

"So just like that…you'd take me to your…shall we say, your 'headquarters', your 'camp'; and hand me back my car?"

"Yes!"

"If I released you now, you would find me this place?"

"YES! Yes, please, please, I promise, I—"

"YOU PROMISE?" the torturer began laughing. "YOU PROMISE?" he repeated. "Just as you had promised last time to do everything I said, so long as I didn't kill you or leave you to the hands of those things. Just like you told me I could trust you…before you double-crossed me and stole my car?"

"No, no, it…it wasn't my fault!" the beggar pleaded. "I…there were others! THEY took the car! I…I…I tried to get them to stay behind, to find you, but—"

"ENOUGH!" the torturer roared. "Enough lies, Thomas—"

William gasped. Thomas? That was…Thomas?

He had found him. Somehow, this strange underground tunnel had led him to Thomas. And another. He didn't know who the other man was, but…he had to put a stop to him.

"Here's the plan I propose…"

William slowly came around a corner…and saw a doorway. The door was opened a crack, and he could see orange candlelight flicker through it.

"You're going to TELL ME everything about this place…where it is…how to get there...the distance…how many people are there…everything. You're going to tell me all that…and I'm going to leave you here, under lock and key. If you're telling me the truth, then I'll come back and release you, plain and simple. But if I find that you're lying to me…that you tell me there are ten people and I find eleven…or it's half a kilometer off…I will come back here…and dripping some hot candlewax on your baby cheek will be the least of your—"

"RELEASE HIM!"

Thomas gasped and tried to look around his torturer. The torturer groaned, in a most exasperated tone, and slowly began to rise to his feet.

"Put your…your weapon down!" William bellowed, holding his rifle high and pointing it directly at the other man's chest.

"It's just a candle, lad…"

William's brow furrowed at the man's accent. It sounded rather similar to…

He shook his head. "Put it down anyway, and turn around! SLOWLY!"

The other man sighed, as if he were being asked to do the most belittling task in the world, but obeyed, putting the candle down on a nearby table…and slowly turning his body until he faced William. "You didn't ask me to put my hands over my head," he muttered.

William kept his rifle steady. "Put your hands over your head!" he shouted, inwardly cursing himself for forgetting.

The other man chuckled, but surprisingly obeyed, lifting his arms and hands up, but more to the level of his head than over it.

"Well…you're just a babe in arms, aren't you?"

William frowned at the other man's insult. "I'm twenty-two!"

The other man chuckled and William felt his face grow hot. "Release Sgt. Barrow at once!" he ordered.

The torturer lifted both eyebrows at this. "Sgt. Barrow?" he turned and looked down at Thomas with amusement. "Sgt. Barrow? You're a sergeant? Of what army?"

"The British Army!" William declared with great pride.

The torturer made a revolting sound, and then spat on the ground at William's feet. "That's my opinion of the so-called 'glorious British army'," he snarled. "And they deserve such an insult…especially if they're mad enough to let a sniveling bastard like him," he pointed at Thomas, "rise to the rank of sergeant."

"YOU WILL RELEASE HIM!" William growled, cocking his rifle at the man's head now.

"Or what…you'll shoot me?" he muttered. "Hate to tell you this lad, but you're not the first to point a gun at me."

William had never dealt with a man like this before; one who showed no fear at having a loaded weapon pointed directly at his head. Would he…would he have to go through with his threat? _I could shoot him in the leg…or shoulder_, he thought to himself. _He would know I mean business then!_ But…could he? While he had shot at enemy forces during the War, and at Walkers, he had never shot at another man standing just a few feet away from him…and glaring him down. Still…he had to try something, for Thomas' sake!

"I'm going to count to three—"

"Oooohhhh, you're going count to three, are you?"

William glared back. "If you haven't started releasing Sgt. Barrow by the time I reach three—"

"You'll blow my brains across this room?" the torturer inquired.

"If I must," William threatened.

"Then you should best do it, lad; because I'm not releasing anyone until I get my car back! And find my brother."

William's eyes widened at this piece of information. Find his brother? Suddenly…suddenly he began to connect the dots. The man's accent…it sounded so familiar because it sounded like that of Mr. Branson's! And Mr. Branson had told all of them that he had been separated from his brother…

Great God in heaven, THIS was Mr. Branson's brother! And as William looked into the other man's eyes…he could see the likeness between the two.

"You're…" William gasped, staring at the older Mr. Branson. "You're…"

The older Mr. Branson looked confused. "What?"

But before anything else could be said…a mighty grunt came from Thomas' throat, and the man lurched his bound feet forward in a ferocious kick…right into the backs of his captive's knees, sending the man falling forward, and landing with a hard thud on the floor…his jaw and head smashing into the table where his candle was resting, knocking him out cold.

William stared in horror, but Thomas was shouting at him to get him out of his bonds. "Cut through the rope!" he ordered. "And the key to these manacles is in his left pocket! I saw it earlier!"

William was still stunned…but he mutely nodded his head and rushed over to cut the ropes, using Mrs. Patmore's best knife. He then searched the pocket Thomas had mentioned, and sure enough, found the key. As soon as his arms were released, Thomas leapt to his feet, and not wasting any time, lurched forward for William's rifle, prepared to shoot the other Mr. Branson right in the head!

"NO!" William, grabbing hold of Thomas' wrists. "What do you think you're doing?"

"GET OFF!" Thomas spat. "The man is a lunatic! He was going to KILL ME!"

"He's Mr. Branson's brother!" William hissed. "The one who Mr. Branson has been looking—"

"I don't care!"

"WE ARE NOT STOOPING TO THAT LEVEL!" William ordered, not caring that Thomas was his "superior" in both the army and the house; he would not allow a man to be killed in cold blood.

Thomas glared at William…but they both froze as the heard the older Branson brother groan. He was beginning to come to.

"We have to tell Mr. Branson…" William murmured.

"WHAT?" Thomas gasped. "ARE YOU MAD? We're not saying anything! We're…" he looked down at the man and then at the manacles hanging from the wall. "Come on…"

William frowned. "Thomas?"

"HELP ME!" Thomas ordered.

William knelt down, thinking Thomas was trying to get the present Mr. Branson on his feet. However, he soon realized that Thomas instead was dragging the man towards the wall…exactly to where Thomas had been. "NO!" he gasped. "Thomas…we…we can't!"

"He'll KILL us if we don't!"

"But this will kill him!"

"HIM OR US, WILLIAM?"

William shook his head. Why did it have to be a question like that?

"Alright, well…we can't carry him out of here…so…so we'll just chain him up, until…until we can tell Mr. Branson properly," Thomas tried to reason, although he kept his eyes away from William's as he spoke. William watched as Thomas began to secure the manacles around the other man's wrists.

"You…you promise? We'll tell Mr. Branson?"

_"I'LL_ tell Mr. Branson," Thomas growled.

"Thomas—"

"Remember, William, I know the truth about how you abandoned Capt. Crawley in London to save your own skin!" he threatened. "If you don't want your secret to be found out, then you will do your best to keep your mouth shut!"

William staggered back, as if he had been struck. He hated this…he hated this entire plan. But he didn't say anything further…or try to stop Thomas.

"COME ON!" Thomas growled, after finishing chaining the other Branson brother to the wall. He grabbed William's rifle and pushed the younger man out of the room. Apparently they were in some sort of…jail cell. And Thomas steered William towards some steps, that actually led up and out of the place, and only then did he realize that they were in constable's station; that the tunnel he had mysteriously followed from the hospital led to the constable's station.

…However, William hadn't realized, nor had Thomas, that Mrs. Patmore's best kitchen knife had been left behind.


	20. Enlightenment

_TA DA! See? I can write in quick succession if the inspiration strikes! As promised, here is the next chapter! I'll try to get next out at a decent time on Sunday at the latest. Anyway, I had intended for this chapter to contain some extra scenes, but...sometimes, you write something, and certain characters DEMAND more attention, and that's exactly what happened. But the plot continues to thicken here! And tensions will begin to rise between certain people..._

_THANKS FOR READING AS ALWAYS! Please leave a comment (it boosts the ego and helps me write more!)_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty_

"**Enlightenment"**

"I can already feel the improvements…" Bates murmured, as the medicine Dr. Clarkson had administered was beginning to take effect.

Anna smiled through her tears, squeezing Bates' hand and leaning across the bed to kiss his forehead. He smiled back at her, although it was a weak smile, or rather, a sleepy one.

Mary smiled as she watched the two gaze at each other with nothing but the purest love. A pang of envy stabbed at her heart then; it was not the first time had looked upon the housemaid and the valet, longing for what the two of them had. Anna and Bates were the lucky ones.

"You did a very fine job in splinting his leg, Nurse Crawley," Dr. Clarkson murmured, examining Bates' leg. Sybil was standing a few feet away from him, and beamed at his words.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson, but I can't take all the credit; had it not been for Thomas' original splint, the bones would not have aligned as well as they did for the proper one I provided after he returned to Downton."

"Yes, I believe you're right," Dr. Clarkson agreed. "His leg will heal, Miss Smith," he announced, looking now at Anna who sat up when he addressed her. "Both Nurse Crawley and Sgt. Barrow did a very good job in realigning the bones, and with a few more weeks of bed rest, he'll be ready to begin some light exercises to rehabilitate his leg."

"But he won't be in anymore pain?" Anna asked, her eyes moving back and forth between Dr. Clarkson and Lady Sybil, anxiously.

"No, Anna," Sybil said with a warm smile. "The worst is over, thank God; the medicine Mary found will help him immensely."

Anna breathed a sigh of relief and turned her gaze to Mary's, tears streaming down her cheeks in heartfelt gratitude at this news. "Oh milady, I…I honestly don't know where to begin in thanking you for all that you've done—"

"Hush," Mary whispered, shaking her head, feeling her heart squeeze with emotion at the woman's words. "It was the right thing to do, and anyone would have done it. Besides, Bates has served this family very well throughout this entire nightmare—it was the least we could do."

Dr. Clarkson smiled and then gestured that they should all go and let Bates get some proper rest. He assured Anna to not be alarmed if he slept a great deal; now that the pain was under control, his body might try to catch up after all the sleepless nights he had endured.

Anna nodded her head in understanding, and then turned once more to lower her lips to Bates' brow…before gently placing a light kiss against his lips. "Sleep well, my love," she whispered. Mary had to turn away; she did not want Anna or anyone else to see how the simple exchange between the two had affected her.

Instead, she led the parade of physicians and well-wishers out of the room and down the corridor, intending to return to the drawing room where everyone else remained. However, they hadn't shut the door before Edith practically came bounding towards them, her hand on her chest and gasping as she paused in front of all of them.

"THEY'RE BACK!"

Mary stared at her dumbfounded, as if she had no idea to whom her sister was talking about. But of course she knew…and a gamut of emotions raced through her at this news.

Thank heavens Sybil was there to ask all the questions her voice seemed incapable of asking.

"All of them?" Sybil asked. "They found both Matthew and Thomas?"

Edith was grinning and nodding her head. "Yes, they all made it back safely—although Branson seems in need of some medical attention."

Mary noticed how her youngest sister stiffened at this news, and without any further comment, raced past both her older sisters to go and see to the new chauffeur. Under normal circumstances, she might frown or think about reprimanding her sister for getting too…familiar…with the servants (or at least too familiar with handsome, _male_ servants) but her mind was focused elsewhere.

_Matthew's back. Matthew's safe!_ "Oh Thank God…" she whispered to herself, closing her eyes and murmuring a thankful prayer under her breath. She was prepared to go and do as Sybil had done, race down the stairs to greet the returning champions—however she hadn't gone two steps before she felt Edith's hand grip her arm…the same place where Sir Richard had grabbed her. It caused Mary to flinch.

"Mary, there's something you should know…" Edith began to tell her, but Mary wrestled her arm free from her sister. She didn't want to hear anything Edith had to say; she simply wanted to see Matthew with her own eyes, see that indeed, he was fine and well, and…and nothing more.

…Nothing more.

So she hurried down the stairs, out into the hall where Carson and Mrs. Hughes were standing, and just beyond saw William helping Sybil drag and carry an unconscious Branson, with Thomas close behind, and her parents standing off to the side, welcoming Matthew back, hailing his success…and greeting someone else.

Mary came to a halt.

A cold feeling suddenly gripped her heart.

She felt as if…as if for some reason…she couldn't breathe.

Standing, just next to Matthew…was a young woman.

A _beautiful_, young woman, with reddish-gold hair and the daintiest nose Mary had ever seen.

And it was clear, based on both his body language, and the way in which Matthew was speaking on the woman's behalf to her parents…that indeed, he knew her.

"Her name is Lavinia," came a voice just over her shoulder. Mary swallowed the lump in throat and stiffened her spine as Sir Richard joined her at her side. "Miss Lavinia Swire," he continued. "Apparently, Capt. Crawley met her when he awoke, back in London. Apparently she…looked after him."

Mary had not gained a reputation for the being the coldest of the Crawley daughters for nothing. She put on her famous steel resolve, one that betrayed no emotion whatsoever, and simply lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at these words. "Well, I'm glad someone did," she merely replied.

She didn't turn her head to Sir Richard, but she heard him chuckling at her words. "Yes—I thought you would be pleased by that," he murmured. She was tempted to roll her eyes at him, but she refused to give any emotions away, even to him.

"How strange, and yet how fortunate that she found him, all the way back here…" he continued.

"Very," Mary simply replied.

"It's obvious they care for one another."

She betrayed her steel resolve by stiffening, just slightly at his words. And of course, this had been what he had wanted, because she saw the corner of his mouth lift in what she could only label as a "cruel" smile.

"Would you care to meet her?"

Mary didn't even turn to look at him. "Of course," she coolly replied, before walking away and giving a pleasant smile to their newest guest.

* * *

She found him standing outside, smoking, like he always did—as if nothing had transpired; as if it were just a normal day of the week, in a world where monsters remained figments of a child's imagination.

She was grateful to see him, she could not deny that. When she had learned that he had been separated and left to rot, she was furious, especially when all the concern seemed to be about "finding and bringing back Capt. Crawley". Well, she supposed she couldn't despise Capt. Crawley too much; after all, he had volunteered to stay behind until Thomas was found. But she knew that the entire reason William and the Irish chauffeur had gone back to the village was to find Capt. Crawley; if they found Thomas, it would be an added "bonus" for them, but she knew that deep down, they didn't care for him. None of them did. And the entire reason Sir Richard and Lady Mary had rushed back to the house was so that Dr. Clarkson could see to that blasted Bates.

And now Bates would be given the morphine that Anna was so desperate to find. Now he wouldn't have to suffer anymore.

While she could take the risk of going into his room while he slept, and destroying the precious medicine, she doubted that Anna would let the man out of her sight. Not to mention it was far less suspicious destroying one vial of the stuff, than an entire case. No, she would have to find another way of destroying her adversary. But if there was one thing Sarah O'Brien was good at…it was being patient and waiting for the right moment.

"You didn't say anything…" she murmured, a small smile lifting at the corners of her mouth when Thomas turned to meet her eyes. However, her smile faded immediately when he answered her with a glare.

"This is all your fault," he muttered, after expelling a great deal of smoke in her direction.

She frowned. "You can't blame me for what happened to you in the village—"

"No, but I can blame you for causing me to have to go in the first place!"

"You would have done the same to Bates if you had half the chance…" she withdrew her own cigarette and quickly lit it with a match. "Or half the courage," she muttered.

He glared back at her, but didn't say anything. The two of them simply stood there, smoking in silence.

Finally, she broke it. "So…what happened?"

He didn't reply; he simply took a long drag.

"They're saying you got lost in some underground tunnel…"

He stiffened a little, but still didn't reply. That was fine; she knew she would get an answer out of him eventually. "William seems quite shaken," she added. "Apparently he was the one that found you?"

Thomas shook some ash from his cigarette. "That's right," he muttered.

Sarah nodded her head. "Must have been grisly, I imagine," she murmured.

He looked at her with suspicion. "What makes you say that?"

It was her turn to take a long drag. "Simply…because of how pale William looks…and how he's avoiding having to talk to anyone, even Daisy," she remarked. "Very unusual for him; normally he comes back wanting to share his 'battle stories'…"

He eyed her and took one last drag. She was close, she knew it.

"So…I can only imagine that something…harrowing, must have taken place, to cause William to be so silent..." she exhaled the smoke through her nostrils. "He does look like he needs to talk to someone though," she sighed. "Maybe I should go and present myself as a listening ear? I know I can get him to tell me his story—"

"Alright," Thomas grumbled, throwing the cigarette butt down on the ground and smashing it with his foot.

She inwardly smiled at her victory.

"We ran into a bit of trouble…" he began.

_ "We?"_

He gave her a look before continuing. "_I_ ran into a bit of trouble," he muttered. He paused before continuing further…and Sarah noticed how he was turning and looking around his shoulder, waiting to see if anyone else would come out of the door and overhear whatever it was he had to say. "We got separated during an attack…" he began. "And…someone hit me over the head," he continued, still eyeing the door behind him.

Sarah was leaning in because his voice was growing softer and softer. _If Daisy comes out through that door, I swear, I'll rip her—_

"When I came to…I was…I was chained in prison cell."

"What?" Sarah coughed, not expecting this answer. Thomas glared at her for lifting her voice, and she nervously looked around, hoping no one else would come and notice their exchange. Not to take any chances, Thomas gestured with a tilt of his head to walk towards the chauffeur's cottage; Mr. Branson was recovering from his own head injury in the house, so they should be safe from prying ears.

"I was chained in a prison cell," he repeated, still keeping his voice low.

"Why?" Sarah knew Thomas wasn't liked, but who would want to chain him up?

He looked around nervously, his fingers moving in such a way, as if gripping an imaginary cigarette. She took pity on him and gave him the one she had been smoking. He accepted it, gratefully, and quickly took a drag before continuing.

"When we were in Malton…I…I was separated from the others during an attack—"

"You seem to have a bad habit of doing that," she muttered.

He glared at her, but continued with his story. "I…I was saved from becoming…'food' for those things, by some stranger in a…" he glanced towards the garage. "In the car that Capt. Crawley drives."

Sarah looked confused. "Capt. Crawley saved you?"

"No!" he groaned. "Didn't you hear what I said? It was a _stranger!_ But the stranger was driving Capt. Crawley's car!"

Sarah was confused. "So…something happened to this man, and all of you took his car?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, no, apparently the car belonged to Capt. Crawley in the first place. The…the stranger had taken the car from him first—I don't know when, obviously sometime before we ran into Capt. Crawley, and then stopped a bunch of these…Walkers, as Capt. Crawley calls them, from attacking me!"

Sarah was still confused. "But…what does this have to do—"

"I double-crossed him," he muttered.

"The stranger?"

"Of course the bloody stranger!" Thomas hissed.

She was starting to put the pieces together. "And this stranger…was the one who had you chained in the prison cell."

He nodded his head, taking a shaky drag on the cigarette. "I took the car—which didn't do me much good, since I can't drive, but…but I tricked him, got him to trust me and…" he groaned and shook his head. "How…how he found me, I…I'm not even sure."

"So what happened?" Sarah demanded. Was this new enemy of Thomas' still out there? Would he be coming to bring trouble to Downton and her lady? If Thomas' foolishness caused any harm to her Ladyship—

"William found us," he explained. "I…I don't know how, really—must have been the same way he dragged from the hospital to that prison cell, some sort of connecting tunnel beneath the streets; I'm not sure, but William somehow found us and—"

"Is he dead?" That was the most important question, and Thomas was dawdling on the answer.

"He will be," he muttered.

She smacked the cigarette out of his hand (his bad hand), causing him to grunt with pain and glare at her. "That's not good enough!" she hissed. "What does that even mean? Why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?"

"I wanted to!" he defended. "But William—"

"To hell with William!" Sarah growled. "To hell with what he thinks! It's not as if some constable is going to come around and arrest you for shooting someone; and you can always claim it was self-defense!"

He glared back at her, but she could see in the depths of his eyes that he knew she was right.

"If that madman brings any harm to my lady—"

"Good grief," Thomas groaned. "Is _that_ what you're so worried about? Her precious Ladyship?—"

He was stopped by the harsh slap she delivered across his face.

"Don't you _ever_ speak of her in such a mocking way," she growled, like a fierce, protective she-wolf.

He rubbed his cheek and glared back, but he didn't say a word.

Another moment of silence passed between the two of them, until once again, Sarah O'Brien broke it, asking, "What does that even mean, _'he will be'?_ Did you stab him and leave him to bleed to death?"

"We chained him up," he muttered, still rubbing his cheek.

"We?"

"YES, this time, I mean, _'we'!"_ he growled. "William and myself; we chained him and left him there to die; are you satisfied?"

"No," she muttered, not caring for his sarcasm. He was leaving something out, something that was a very important. "You said William was there, and that was why you didn't kill this stranger—but there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

His eyes fell to the ground, and folded his arms across his chest, a defensive gesture that she recognized.

"_Who_…is this stranger, Thomas?" she murmured. The answer lay there, she knew it. "Answer me," she demanded, not raising her voice, but keeping her tone quite firm.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his eyes still avoiding hers, but Sarah stood there and waited, letting her patience win over.

Finally, he lifted his eyes to hers. "Mr. Branson's missing brother."

She blinked, wondering if she had heard correctly. But slowly, her friend's words washed over her and began to sink in. _Mr. Branson's missing brother…no wonder William didn't want to kill him, sentimental fool._ No wonder Thomas was nervous about anyone overhearing them!

"Will he keep his silence?" she hissed, grabbing hold of his arm and forcing him to look at her.

"William?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, you idiot, his Lordship! OF COURSE, WILLIAM!"

"He will, if he doesn't want his secret to be found out," he growled.

That wasn't good enough. William was the sort who would let his emotions and conscious get the better of him. He was the sort who would blurt something out, at the most random and inopportune moment, the weight of his guilt breaking him. Eventually Mr. Carson would demand to know why William was in such low spirits. Daisy would ask questions too, the whole bloody lot of them. Good God, it was like keeping a ticking time bomb in the house; eventually, William would explode and say everything, not caring about what the repercussions for himself. And Mr. Branson would hear everything…

And she had a feeling that Mr. Branson would finish with Thomas, where his brother had left off.

But what this other Branson brother? Thomas sounded so sure that the man would die, but would he? What if he found a way to escape? Or if someone else came along and let him out? What if William tried to sneak back to release him? What then? Would he come to the house? Would he go on some bloody rampage to extract his revenge? Must she be the one to think of EVERYTHING?

"You have to go back," she muttered.

Thomas stared at her as if she had told him she was the Queen of England. "What?"

"Go back and finish the job that you couldn't do because William, apparently, wouldn't let you!"

He shook his head. "I'm NOT going back there!"

"You have to!" she hissed. "What will happen if he gets out?"

"He's not going to get out!"

She rolled her eyes. "We can't take any chances!"

"I…AM…NOT…GOING…BACK!" he snarled, before pushing past her and stalking back towards the house. She glared at his retreating figure, hoping the sharpness of her gaze felt like a million daggers hitting his back.

Yes, it seemed that not only did she have to think of everything…but she had to take care of everything, too.

* * *

To say she was somewhat overwhelmed by her surroundings…would be a bit of an understatement.

Lavinia had stared in awe at the castle—truly, that was all she could think when saw the manor that was known as "Downton Abbey": _castle_. When Matthew had told her that he had relatives in Yorkshire, relatives that called for him to their part of Yorkshire, thus "pulling him away" from his life in Manchester…she had never once paused to consider that these relatives of his were…well, the sort that would live in a castle.

_Perhaps this is where they are making their headquarters?_ After all, the bungalow that both she and her father had occupied in London hadn't been their original home, but…the closer they drew to the place, she had a feeling that this wasn't some mere, abandoned manor house that the Crawley family had chosen to occupy. And when she realized that the people who were staying with the Crawley's weren't other survivors but in fact…servants…well, she knew this was entirely different from the situation in London where she had come.

Matthew was quick to introduce her to everyone, while the same time trying to reassure and explain everything that had happened in the village, but for herself, it just added more to her already overwhelmed mind. Lord, she prayed she wasn't expected to memorize everyone's names, at least not on the first day.

They were seated in the library now, and Lavinia stared in awe at all the books on the shelves. Her family was not poor, by any means, but their way of living was extremely modest when compared to the lush elegance of Downton Abbey. And it was amazing that despite the chaos that had erupted in the world around the estate, it stood tall and firm, like a sentential of legend.

The housekeeper…whose name Lavinia had already forgotten, was bringing tea, along with a ginger-haired housemaid who looked as if she wanted to stay and hear whatever it was the family was going to discuss, but the housekeeper ushered the housemaid out, muttering an apology for shutting the library door. Only one servant remained inside, and that was the butler, a formidable looking man named "Carson".

Carson stood in the background, as if trying to blend in with the books on the shelves. Seated on the various chairs and settees around the room were some of the members of the Crawley family whom she had met in the hall. Matthew stood just to her right, while sitting directly to her left was a woman named "Lady Edith" (that would take some getting used to—calling these men and women "lord" and "lady" before saying their names), whom Matthew had explained was the Earl and Countess of Grantham's middle daughter. Speaking of those very people, the Earl of Grantham stood just opposite of Matthew, while his wife, the Countess, sat in a chair in front of him. Next to Lady Edith on the same settee she occupied was an older woman, the Dowager Countess, whom Matthew referred to as "Cousin Violet". Seated in a chair near the Dowager Countess was a man with a moustache, who was not a member of the Crawley family, but in fact their physician. "Clarkson"…she thought she remembered someone referring to him by that name. But on the far side of the library, seated by herself on a settee with her back rigidly straight, was the very woman Lavinia knew she would remember the second someone introduced her; Lady Mary Crawley.

Lady Mary was very beautiful, that could not be denied. She was pale and dark all at once. Her hair, her eyes, her lashes, all very dark. And yet her skin was alabaster in color, as well as in texture from the look of her. She was both radiant…and frightening, all at once. And Lavinia couldn't help but feel…chilled, by just looking at her. Indeed, this was a woman whose very presence could command armies to do battle for her, if she so wished it. This was the sort of woman, like Helen of Troy, who men would go to war for…who men would willingly die for.

This was the cousin to whom Matthew had murmured once, in his sleep. This was the person who clearly had some sort of…control over him, and who had kept him at Downton after his first, initial visit in 1912. And really, could anyone blame him?

Just as the Downton Abbey and its grand library caused Lavinia to feel very humble and meek when she thought of her old home…so also, did Lady Mary Crawley cause Lavinia to feel…a little inadequate.

Standing directly behind Lady Mary, his hands folded behind his back was a tall, fair-haired man, who was the only person in the entire room smiling. He was older than Matthew, but certainly no more than forty, judging from the look of him. He also seemed…familiar, in some way. Had Lavinia seen him before? She couldn't remember his name…

"Well, I for one would love to hear more about Capt. Crawley's escapades at the village hospital," the gentlemen murmured, his face still holding that crocodile smile, despite the look Lady Mary was giving him.

"We should wait for Sybil," she muttered. "You know how she can throw a fit if she's 'the last to learn anything'."

That was the only family member who was missing; the youngest Crawley daughter, named Sybil. Or _Lady_ Sybil, although in truth, Sybil seemed the most approachable out of all the Crawley members. However, Lady Sybil had disappeared earlier to tend to the man whom Lavinia had struck over the head with her frying pan. Poor man; Tom—yes, that was what Matthew had called him. She would have to go and make her apologies later, when he wasn't unconscious.

"She'll be here soon enough, I'm sure," his Lordship grumbled. "And we've been waiting long enough for some answers." Lavinia froze when she realized his Lordship was looking directly at her. "So…you took care of Matthew in London, after he awoke from his coma?"

She stared at his Lordship, her mouth suddenly dry and the words suddenly stuck in her throat.

"Yes, Robert," Matthew answered on her behalf, grateful that he had. "Lavinia, and her father, took me in, showed me how to hunt and kill Walkers—"

Both the Dowager Countess and her Ladyship trembled at these words.

"And Reggie, Mr. Swire," he was quick to add, "gave me the car to drive back here to find all of you."

"Remarkable," her Ladyship murmured, her American accent very clear and obvious. "Oh Miss Swire, I don't know how we can begin to thank you for helping Matthew."

She blushed and lowered her head modestly, not really sure what to say. It was the sort of thing any decent person would do, or so she believed.

"But how did you come to make it all the way up here?" Lady Edith asked, from her left.

Once again, Matthew spoke. "Lavinia told me that…that after the death of her father," he said the words quickly, knowing they were still painful, "She took a horse, packed what supplies she could carry, and headed north; you see, I had told her, and Reggie, that if they could, to travel north to Yorkshire, to find me—"

"So you invited her here, then?" the man standing behind Lady Mary asked.

Oh dear…was she not welcome? She was an extra mouth to feed, that was true; and she had heard of some communities where they did not want to take in more survivors; in some ways, her father was like that, having made it quite clear that as soon as he was able, Matthew would to made to leave.

"Yes, I did," Matthew replied, his voice sounded quite cold.

"And she is most welcome," her Ladyship confirmed, looking directly into Lavinia's eyes and smiling.

Lavinia swore she heard something coming from the Dowager Countess, but when she glanced over at the woman, she simply looked preoccupied with the rug beneath her feet. However, it was the Dowager Countess who asked, "I wonder, cannot Miss Swire speak for herself?"

Lavinia lifted her eyes and met those of the Dowager Countess in surprise.

"I don't mean to sound rude, my dear, but I confess, I do get tired of hearing the men always dominating the conversation, especially when the questions aren't even being asked to them."

Matthew turned bright red. Lavinia blushed, but lifted her chin and nodded her head. "Yes, your…your Ladyship, I can speak for myself. I…it's…it's just been a rather…long journey…"

"And you're tired, of course."

Lavinia turned her head quickly to see that the lovely and imposing Lady Mary was speaking to her.

"Perhaps Carson, you should have Mrs. Hughes take our guest to her room? I'm sure they are finished preparing something by now."

"Oh! Oh, no, thank you, that's very kind, but—" Lavinia stopped as Lady Mary looked back at her, lifting one of her beautifully sculpted brows in question. "No…thank you, but…I'd rather stay here for the moment, if that's alright, of course?"

"Of course," Lady Mary replied, but her tone was short and…chilled. Lavinia swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and quickly turned her eyes down towards her clasped hands.

"And Thomas? You said that William found him in the constable's station?" his Lordship asked, trying to make sense of the situation.

Matthew nodded. "Apparently there's some sort of underground tunnel that connects between the two places. How long it's been there, I don't know, but…William stumbled across it and found Thomas; apparently the man had gotten lost after we had been separated—which is rather easy to do in the dark."

"It is…" murmured the physician, who drew everyone's attention to where he sat.

"Clarkson, I hope we can finally get some answers…" his Lordship muttered, looking extremely eager to ask the man with the moustache some questions. Judging from the way Matthew had leaned in, he seemed very eager as well.

The door to the library opened, and everyone turned to see Lady Sybil enter. "Did I miss anything?" she asked, quickly moving to the open spot on the settee next to Lady Mary.

"Dr. Clarkson is about to tell us where he's…well, where's been all this time," his Lordship explained, turning his attentions back to the physician. "So, why don't we start there?"

Dr. Clarkson nodded his head and set his tea cup aside. Even though Lavinia hadn't eaten in nearly a day and even though she hadn't had a proper cup of tea in so long…she was still too nervous and overwhelmed to try. So like everyone, she too leaned forward as the doctor rose to his feet to address everyone.

"When reports of…strange things…began coming our way from the hospitals in London, I thought they would surely quarantine the city, and nothing of the likelihood would come our way…" he sighed. "But then I began hearing similar reports in hospitals in Birmingham…Manchester…and Newcastle—"

"What about York?" Lady Sybil asked, before being hushed by her sister.

Dr. Clarkson smiled at Lady Sybil and shook his head. "Nothing, actually."

Now the good doctor had Lavinia's attention…as well as everyone else in the room.

"Nothing at all?" his Lordship asked, completely amazed by this.

"Nothing at all," Dr. Clarkson repeated. "In fact…word began to spread that…that they may be onto a cure."

"A CURE?" everyone in the room gasped.

_Is it possible?_ Lavinia thought to herself.

"Is this true, Clarkson?" his Lordship asked.

Now Dr. Clarkson's assured smile began to fade. "I…I don't know, to be honest."

"Then how was it that you came to hear the rumors?" her Ladyship demanded.

"Papa," Lady Sybil turned to her father then. "Is this why you tried to shush me when I asked Branson about York? Were you aware of such rumors?"

"Sybil, please," her father softly reprimanded, although Lavinia could tell judging by the man's expression that yes, that was exactly the reason, even though she didn't know the details to this conversation that the two of them had had.

"Dr. Clarkson, what about my mother?" Matthew asked. Yes, Lavinia had noticed that the one person she expected to meet was Capt. Crawley's mother, but…she was nowhere in sight. "I was told she left the village…before…" he looked at his family and then took a deep breath to continue. "Before everything happened here."

Dr. Clarkson didn't look surprised by these words. In fact…he looked as if he knew a little too much.

"Mrs. Crawley…she was the only other person with whom I shared the reports with," he murmured.

"What?" his Lordship gasped. "How long had you been receiving such reports?"

"For…nearly a month," he confessed.

"YOU HAD KNOWN ABOUT THESE…THESE…THESE _THINGS_ FOR NEARLY A MONTH, AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ANYONE?"

"Robert, please!" her Ladyship hissed. "Calm down and let Dr. Clarkson finish his story!"

"I didn't know _WHAT_ we were dealing with, Lord Grantham!" Dr. Clarkson defended. "All I knew was that…something strange was happening; that…that the patients who suffered from these conditions were changing in appearance…that they would fall into long comas, and then awake and become violent. Then I started to hear that the comas weren't very long, that they would last for only a few hours, but…but I swear, that's all I knew. I certainly didn't know that the patients would turn into…into…"

"Monsters," Lavinia whispered under her breath.

Everyone gazed at her, before looking back at Dr. Clarkson. They were all thinking it as well.

"Mrs. Crawley wanted to go and investigate…but she didn't want to say anything in case the news just turned out to be rumors, and nothing more."

Matthew was grimacing at Dr. Clarkson. "So…so you just let her go?" he asked through gritted teeth. "Just like that? By herself?"

"Capt. Crawley, I...I understand your concern—"

_"DO YOU?"_

"Matthew…" Lavinia whispered, reaching up and trying to put a soothing hand on his arm to calm him.

She felt a pair of eyes on her and quickly looked in the direction of Lady Mary—who immediately looked away.

Suddenly, Lavinia felt her face grow incredibly hot.

"I regret it, believe me, I do," Dr. Clarkson moaned, looking very distraught. "But…I didn't know what we would be dealing with, nor did Mrs. Crawley…and…and she insisted—"

"My boy," everyone turned then to look at the Dowager Countess, whose eyes were firmly planted on Matthew. "You and I probably know better than anyone in this room, how…_determined_…a woman like your mother can be, when she sets her mind to something."

Matthew actually let out a bit of what sounded like a chuckle, and despite the eyes she had felt watching her earlier, Lavinia lifted her hand…and actually took his in hers, giving it a squeeze. Matthew looked down at her, his eyes full of worry and emotion, but there was a tiny smile of gratitude on his face, and he returned the squeeze.

"So…Isobel went to York?" his Lordship asked, trying to make sense of all the information that had been gathered. "She left to go and see why there were no reports coming from them as there were coming from London and Manchester and all those other places…but…surely you kept in contact with her?"

Dr. Clarkson sighed and looked down. "Communication was cut off completely within the next few days. Suddenly, news began grow more and more harrowing. Reports of people fleeing cities were on the rise. And then…" his voice trailed off and he paused to search for his handkerchief to "wipe his brow" (but from what Lavinia could see, he was actually drying his eyes).

"So my mother went to York," Matthew murmured, trying to keep his own emotion under control. "She left a week before disaster struck Downton and hasn't been heard from since."

"Surely you knew if she arrived in York?" her Ladyship asked, turning to Dr. Clarkson and trying to provide some sense of hope with her question.

But the doctor sadly shook his head. "Communication was lost by then."

"Oh that's absurd!" Matthew growled. "It takes no more than an hour to drive to York from here! And even if she took a bus that stopped at every village along the way, she still would have arrived before—"

"I'm sorry Capt. Crawley, truly, but…I never received a telephone call or a telegram. Nothing."

"Did you try to contact her?" Lady Sybil asked, leaning forward. "I mean, I would assume she had gone to the hospital…or perhaps the college?"

Dr. Clarkson now looked rather grave. "I…I did, actually, Lady Sybil," he began. "I assumed she was too tired from her journey to contact me that evening, so I waited. When the next day had arrived and still hadn't heard anything, I did begin to wonder…and then by that evening, I was concerned, so…so I did ring both the hospital and the college, just as you said."

"And?" his Lordship asked, leaning close.

"Nothing," Dr. Clarkson said dejectedly. "Nothing would go through. In some ways, it was as if…as if some sort of 'quarantine' had taken place on all communication and information, coming in and out of York."

A painful silence filled the library then. "So that's it," Matthew murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, but it was loud enough for people to hear. "My mother is missing…as good as dead."

"Oh Matthew, you mustn't—" all eyes now turned to Lady Mary, who seemed to have done what she had done earlier, by leaning forward and reaching for Matthew's other hand to squeeze. Lavinia felt her back stiffen at the near gesture. Lady Mary seemed to realize what she was doing as well…because she quickly returned to her original posture, and folded her hands once again, on her lap.

An awkward silence filled the room, but thankfully it was broken by the man who was standing directly behind Lady Mary…and who seemed to be touching her shoulder rather…possessively.

"You still haven't answered our question, Dr. Clarkson," the man reminded him. "What have YOU been doing this entire time?"

Dr. Clarkson looked at all of them, a little nervously it seemed. He then took a deep breath and began. "When…when everything began to fall apart, I…I honestly tried to help; I tried to keep the hospital going, tried keep as many medics and nurses on staff as much as possible, but…but everyone was so afraid, and…" he sighed and lowered his head. "It may seem like a coward's answer, but…once I realized that…that there was no helping the poor people afflicted with this terrible disease, I locked myself away, and decided to dedicate all of my energies on trying to find a cure."

"Good God!" his Lordship gasped. "So…so you've been hiding in some bunker this whole time?"

"Have you found a cure?" Lady Edith asked, looking hopeful.

"No," Dr. Clarkson answered honestly. "But…but I do feel I am getting close!"

Once again, Lavinia's attention was drawn fully to the doctor.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked, joining the conversation once again.

"These…creatures," the doctor began. "They're not…they're not invincible; I mean, you already know that. By shooting or stabbing the brain, you stop—"

"Dr. Clarkson, please remember that the ladies are present," his Lordship muttered, looking embarrassed. Lavinia noticed how Lady Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes at her father's words. Lady's Sybil's reaction matched the one Lavinia was feeling.

"I beg your pardon," Dr. Clarkson apologized. "But…what I am trying to say is that these things are not immortal; they will eventually die of their own accord, just like people. It just takes longer. For example, they can starve to death—but where it takes a man a week or two, for these…Walkers, as you call them, Capt. Crawley, it would take somewhere between four to six months."

"Good God," his Lordship groaned. "Four to Six months? That's still too long!"

"But it does tell us that the Walkers can die from starvation; that they are, as Dr. Clarkson says, quite mortal!" Lady Sybil defended.

"Also, they need to consume…um…" the doctor paused, glancing at all the women in the room. "Well, what I'm trying to say is that their metabolism rates are much higher than the average man; that's why they're constantly looking for…well, for 'food', because their bodies crave it."

Lady Sybil looked her father squarely in the eye at this. "It's more information than we've had before, Papa."

"Yes, but when will they be _without_ a food source?" his Lordship groaned.

"Dr. Clarkson?"

Everyone turned to look at her again, and Lavinia swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. "I…I'm sorry, this may sound like a silly question to ask, but…_how_ do you know all this?"

Dr. Clarkson looked down at the ground for a long moment, while everyone leaned forward, waiting to hear his answer. Finally, he lifted his head, and his eyes held hers in a hard, and yes, rather guilty-looking gaze. "Because…I've been conducting _my own_ experiments."


	21. Tension

_The plot continues to thicken. To my fellow S/T fans who were longing for some "Nurse Crawley" tending to Branson...you get your wish ;o) also, some interesting developments for another Crawley sister, not to mention some Hughes/Carson moments. AMC's "The Walking Dead" *finally* returned after it's mid-season finale, and it gave me a WHOLE BUNCH of ideas for this fic...we're a long way from being finished, so sit tight and (hopefully!) continue to enjoy! Thanks for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-One_

"**Tension"**

This was her chance.

She would simply walk into that room, carrying the tray with the rag and bowl, and she just might suggest that he remove his shirt, so as not to drip any of the water on him—

"Ethel?"

The housemaid groaned upon hearing her name questioned by the ever-watchful housekeeper.

"What are you doing up here on this side of the house?" Mrs. Hughes demanded. Housemaids were forbidden to enter the men's quarters; the ladies side of was under lock and key, and Mrs. Hughes contained the only set.

She put on a smile and tried to look innocent, despite the fact that she knew Mrs. Hughes distrusted her. "I was just coming to check on Mr. Branson—"

"Mr. Branson needs his rest right now!" Mrs. Hughes growled. "And if he should require anything, we now have a doctor to come and see to his—"

"Oh! Ethel this is perfect!"

Both the housemaid and the housekeeper turned to see Lady Sybil, still in her nurse's uniform from earlier, coming up the steps that Ethel had just taken. "Milady," Ethel murmured with a little curtsey, although in truth she was inwardly groaning because she knew it would be impossible to go and see Mr. Branson at all, now that the "Nurse Crawley" had arrived.

"Daisy told me you had taken a tray up for Branson; thank you for doing that; that was very kind!"

Ethel simply muttered "you're welcome", before begrudgingly handing the tray containing the cloth and bowl over to Lady Sybil.

Mrs. Hughes was frowning. "I think Mr. Branson is sleeping, milady. Best to let him get his rest, don't you think?"

"Actually, it's better that he stays awake if he's suffered from a concussion," Lady Sybil sighed. "So I better not waste any more time and wake him right away."

Mrs. Hughes still didn't look satisfied. "What about Dr. Clarkson? Will he be joining you soon?"

Ethel's eyes kept going back and forth between the youngest Crawley daughter and the housekeeper. It was obvious to everyone that Mrs. Hughes liked Lady Sybil, just as it was obvious that Mr. Carson liked Lady Mary, and it was also obvious that Mrs. Hughes was concerned about propriety. But Ethel knew, deep down before anything further was said, that unlike herself, the housekeeper would eventually give in and let Lady Sybil enter Mr. Branson's room.

"He went back to check on Bates," Lady Sybil explained. "I told him I would alert him if anything seemed amiss."

Mrs. Hughes looked torn. "That's all very good, milady, but—"

"I saw Carson on my way up; he said to ask for you, if you were up here."

Ethel's eyes widened a little at this. _Oh that was clever_, she thought. It had long been believed amongst members of the downstairs staff, that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had a slow-burning…attraction for each other. Why it was even rumored that the entire reason Mrs. Hughes had turned down a marriage proposal so late in her life, was so that she could stay on at Downton and be close to Mr. Carson. And Ethel did notice how Mrs. Hughes' cheeks glowed with color at the mention of Mr. Carson asking for her.

"I see…" she murmured. "Did he mention why?"

Lady Sybil shook her head. "He said he would be in the butler's pantry; I think it may have something to do with William, but I'm not sure."

Mrs. Hughes continued frowning, although now her frown had new meaning. Ethel remembered seeing William come into the house, helping Lady Sybil carry Mr. Branson inside, and upon finishing his task, came downstairs only for a brief moment…and then promptly left, without a word but looking most…upset. And conflicted as well.

Mrs. Hughes sighed and nodded her head. So the great dragon is being called back to her den, Ethel thought. But I doubt she'll let me—

"Come along, Ethel, you have work to do."

Ethel made a face. "I thought perhaps I could—" she was going to suggest staying with Lady Sybil, as an assistant…or chaperone, whichever you like.

But Lady Sybil must have realized what she was intending, because she quickly added, "Miss Swire is in her room now, and may need help in getting a bath prepared…I'm sorry to have to ask you, Ethel, but would you help her? Anna is either with Mary right now, or Edith—"

"Of course she'll help…won't you Ethel?" Mrs. Hughes said rather pointedly.

As if she could refuse. _Although what's the worst they can do to me? They can't very well sack me; and who would I give a reference to? And they wouldn't throw me out…would they?_ The thought terrified her…and was the only thing that truly kept her from lashing out in the end.

"Yes, milady," she mumbled under her breath, before turning and going down the stairs, hearing Mrs. Hughes following close behind, while Lady Sybil's footsteps went the other direction, towards Mr. Branson's room. _Someday my ship is going to come in,_ she thought to herself. _The first chance I get, I'm leaving this place; I'm done with these people! I just need the right man to leave with…_

She was hoping Mr. Branson would be that man. But it seemed that she had been bested, at least so far, by the youngest Crawley girl, of all people. _I should have run away with one of those officers when I had the chance!_

* * *

The lump felt enormous. Tom swore that a person could use it as the post for a game of horseshoes. He winced as he brought his fingers up to touch it; whoever that woman was with the frying pan had an incredibly strong arm. He had been in a haze ever since Matthew began to drag him out of the hospital, and back to the car. He only remembered a few details—William and Thomas shouting at them as Matthew and the woman put him in…then waking slightly (and in an even deeper haze) as two people helped him up the stairs to the servant's quarters. The second his head hit the pillow, everything went blank.

Now, as he turned his eyes to the window, he could tell that it was dark. How long had he been out?

A soft tap was heard on the other side of the door. Tom turned his head and made a groaning sound, wanting to tell whoever was on the other side to feck off and leave him be…but before he could even put together some words, the door opened and _her_ face peeked in.

"Oh good!" she sighed with relief. "You're awake, I'm so glad!"

Tom stiffened, and then quickly sat up. "Milady!" he gasped, grateful that he hadn't answered the knock with the words he had been contemplating_. I should stand,_ he thought, and attempted to force his legs out from under the blankets onto the floor.

"No, please! Stay where you are," she insisted, smiling at him, but looking very firm—just as a nurse would look. Tom couldn't help but smile at this. He really needed to get to know her better, he was quite curious about her nursing and the how and why she had become one. She wasn't like any posh English girl he had met before. In truth…she wasn't like any other person he had met before…

"How are you feeling?" she asked, coming towards him and carefully placing the tray she was holding down on the table near his bed.

_She's near my bed. She's here, right now, with me in my room, near my bed…and we're all alone. _Every warning bell was ringing in his head, and he could hear his brother's voice screaming at him…but he told them all to sod off.

"Like I've been hit over the head," he groaned, his fingers still lingering over the lump. "With an anvil."

"Here, let me look," she murmured, coming closer and hovering over him. Tom swallowed the rather large, nervous lump in his throat, which no doubt rivaled the lump on his head in size. _Don't move…keep perfectly still! _He held his breath as he realized, from the angle in which she was hovering to examine him…that her chest was just a few inches away from his face.

Sybil hissed as she examined the lump. "How does this feel?" she tentatively asked, her fingers touching the bump ever so slightly. He winced at the touch, but in truth…it hurt far less when she touched him than when his own fingers were touching it.

"Not…not so bad," he murmured, closing his eyes in order to prevent himself from staring at her breasts. He may not be considered a gentleman, but he was no lech, either.

"Oh my," Sybil murmured, her words causing his own to open with alarm.

"W-w-what?" he asked. Whatever it was, it didn't sound good. "What? What is it?"

"There's a little blood," she explained. "It's dry for the most part, but it does look like she cracked your skull a bit."

He watched as she reached over to the tray by the table, and took the rag and placed it in the water. Her hands were steady—she was clearly someone with training, not just some girl playing the part of nurse. Of course, he shouldn't have been too surprised. He remembered how she had handled herself, back at the petrol station. If she had fear, she had managed to squash it long enough to do battle.

"This may sting a bit," she warned, before taking the wet rag and placing it over the lump.

He winced again, but didn't flinch. She pressed the rag for a few seconds, before wiping at the lump, taking away some of the caked blood that had dried there. "I should apply some iodine, just to be safe; that will sting," she warned him.

"Whatever you think is best," he simply answered. He was about to say he was completely in her hands, but the thought brought heat to his face and a groan to his throat, so he chose to remain silent. Instead, he looked up at her as she took a small vial from her apron pocket, and applied a few drops to the rag. "You're good at this."

Her eyes, which had been completely focused on her task, moved to his and Tom felt his throat go dry. God, she had beautiful eyes. Blue like his, but…darker. And her lips…they were so full, so pink, so…

_Stop it, Tommy! You're getting in way over your head!_

"Thank you," she answered, smiling and blushing slightly. God, he loved that blush. And that smile! He had seen many pretty girls in his life, but pretty seemed so…mundane, when describing Sybil Crawley.

"I rather enjoy it, actually," she confessed, her smile shining all the more.

"Nursing?"

She nodded, her smile broadening even more. "I felt…I felt the need to _do something_ during the War; I couldn't stand sitting and being idle," she explained. "I mean, yes there were small tasks I could do, such as…selling charity tickets or knitting socks, which is all very good, but…I wanted _real_ work."

Her words, her voice, were filled with passion. Tom found himself staring in awe at her as she told her story.

"My cousin, Isobel—Matthew's mother," she explained. "She was a nurse for a number of years. She wrote to a nurse's training college in York, recommending me for a course there. I went and I must say, it was the best decision I ever made," she grinned.

He smiled back, feeling his own chest swell with the pride of which she spoke.

"In fact, I loved it so much that…" she glanced towards the door and then back to him, her voice lowered just slightly so only he could hear. "…That I had made plans to continue, even after the War was over."

He lifted his brows at this. "Really?"

She nodded. "Yes, I had even gone so far as to make plans with my friend Gwen; we would have a flat in London, and I would find a hospital in which to work and she would be a secretary…" the smile that was on her face began to fade slightly, and Tom noticed how her voice became a little strained, and her breathing a little shaky.

Gwen; he remembered hearing that name before—or was it seeing it? Suddenly it occurred to him. The mass grave outside; there was a marker that read the name GWEN.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. He had never asked her about the grave, or who or how many were buried there, but he knew that the place was sacred to Sybil, based on the dedication she took to tending to it.

She gave a sad smile and nodded her head. "She was…she was actually a housemaid here," she went on. "You…you would have liked her," she whispered, her eyes shining with tears, despite the smile she wore.

Somehow, her revelation that her friend was a housemaid didn't surprise him. Sybil Crawley struck him as someone who didn't care about class or any sort of division. He knew she was for women's rights, he had learned that right away. He had a feeling that her thoughts and opinions wouldn't be too far from his own, socialist beliefs. Indeed, she was unlike any person he had ever met—and he loved that about her.

"I'm sure I would have," he answered, referencing her words about liking Gwen. "I'm sure I would have liked any friend of yours."

Sybil smiled at this and with her free hand, quickly wiped her eyes. "She always dreamed of being a secretary," she explained. "In fact, I was determined to help her find a job. I even wrote her references," she softly giggled. "When Papa found out that I was trying to help her find a position, he was so frustrated."

Tom found himself chuckling at this, imagining a younger Sybil Crawley, furiously scouring newspapers, searching advertisements for secretaries, and writing letters of reference. He liked that image; he had a feeling he would have liked Sybil Crawley at any age.

"She died trying to save me…"

Tom's face paled at this revelation and he looked up at Sybil. She was biting her lip and looking away. He saw her eyes silently squeeze tight, as if fighting urge to cry. Without hesitation, he reached up and took her free hand in his own and squeezed it. "It's alright—"

"No, it's not!" she gasped, meeting his eyes, the tears beginning to fall now. "I should have been able to defend myself! Or at the very least, been able to fight them away when they…when they…" while he didn't know the story of how her friend had died, Tom could see that the memory had been most grisly, judging from the horror he saw painted on her face.

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and took a deep, cleansing breath. "Every day, I vow to both myself and to Gwen that I will not let anyone fight my battles, let alone die in their attempts to keep me safe—never again!"

He nodded his head, understanding her feelings. He felt similarly when he thought of his brother. Kieran could be a right bastard at times, but he had kept him safe throughout this entire nightmare. That was why he had to find him; it was his turn to be the defender and protector.

"She would be proud of you," he murmured, drawing Sybil's gaze back to his own. "She is proud of you."

He was glad his words managed to bring a smile to her face. He never wanted to see her cry.

"I…I like to think that," she confessed, smiling and looking down at her feet, before lifting her eyes and smiling back at him. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he replied, meaning every word.

Just then, he noticed how her other hand lifted away, his eyes widened when he realized…she had been tending to his wound this whole time?

"Wait…I…I thought you said it would sting?"

She grinned at this and placed the rag in her bowl. "Distraction is a nurse's best tool," she explained with a little wink.

Tom stared at her and felt that heat return to his cheeks. However, he couldn't help and return her smile. "You are good," he murmured, looking up at her in awe again.

She blushed and then proceeded to fluff his pillow a bit, before placing her hands on his shoulders and gently guiding him back to against it. _A man could get used to this_, he thought. _A man could get used to a great many things in the presence of such a woman as Lady Sybil. _

"I think the worst is over," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "But either I or Dr. Clarkson will come back to check on you in a bit, just to make sure."

She must have been referring to his concussion. He nodded his head to her words, but found himself secretly hoping it would be her instead of the doctor.

"Best to get some rest, Mr. Branson," she directed, trying to look stern, but he could see the merriment in her eyes.

"Aye, Nurse Crawley," he obediently replied.

She smiled at this and picked up the tray. "Are you hungry? I can make sure that Mrs. Patmore makes you some broth—"

"That would be lovely," he honestly answered. Will you come back and spoon feed it to me? Will you sit on my bed? Lean over me again? But instead of saying any of these things, he simply said, "Tom."

She lifted her brows at this. "Tom?"

He nodded. "My name; as nice as it is to hear you call me 'Mr. Branson'…that's not my name, or not my Christian name."

It was a risk, asking her to call him by his first name. People like him weren't even referred to as "Mr." by people like her. And yet after all that they had just shared…and after everything they had been through over the past few days, he felt that they had reached a level beyond the role of "servant" and "mistress". Rather, he liked to think of the two of them as…friends.

"Tom…" she murmured again, a beautiful smile spreading across her lips. She then placed a hand on her chest. "Alright…but only if you promise to call me 'Sybil' instead of 'milady'."

"As you wish, milady." He chuckled at the look she gave him, but soon she was giggling too.

"Alright…Tom," she said again. He loved the way she said his name. He could listen to her saying his name all day. "Get some rest; I'll make sure to tell Mrs. Patmore about your broth."

He watched as she carefully left the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. The throbbing on his head was long forgotten. Instead, it was replaced by a very warm and very distinct throbbing in his chest.

* * *

"What do you mean 'experimenting'?" Elsie gasped, staring at Mr. Carson with wide and rather horrified eyes.

"I honestly don't know," the butler muttered, shaking his head, his own face mirroring the revulsion that she was feeling. "He didn't go into details—thank God; I would have had to rush for the smelling salts for her Ladyship!"

Elsie couldn't help but roll her eyes at this. She respected Mr. Carson a great deal, but she did find his thoughts and opinions on the sensibilities of women to be rather…backwards.

After coming downstairs and finding her friend, he quickly began to tell her everything that had transpired in the library. The revelation about what may have happened to Mrs. Crawley, the details involving Miss Swire and what she had done for Capt. Crawley in London (as well as the sad death of her father, the poor dear), and the truth about where Dr. Clarkson had been this whole time…and what he had been doing.

"Who would have thought we'd have our very own Dr. Frankenstein," she said with a shiver.

"My thoughts exactly," Mr. Carson sighed. "But…I will not deny, Mrs. Hughes, as chilling as it was, it was also rather fascinating to learn that…well, that…that these…things…are not as omnipotent as we thought!"

"Oh we all knew that, Mr. Carson," she said with a sigh. "A bullet to the head proves that!"

He frowned a little at her words. She knew he did not like hearing her talk so_. I'm not Lady Mary; I don't need special protection! Like Lady Sybil, I would much rather know how to defend myself than to rely completely on another. _

"But what I mean, Mrs. Hughes, is that apparently they _can_ die of natural causes! It is possible to starve them! It just takes longer," he explained.

Elsie took a sip of the sherry Mr. Carson had poured for them. "You'd have to round them up and put them in a pen in order to do that!" she remarked. She paused and her brow furrowed in thought. "I wonder…do you think if they were hungry enough, they would turn on each other?"

His face paled at this. "Mrs. Hughes, please!"

She waved her hand in a dismissing gesture. "Mr. Carson, do not be so squeamish."

His face now began to darken. "I…I…I am not squeamish!" he sputtered, before taking his sherry glass and drinking its contents rather quickly.

It took everything in her power not to grin, let alone laugh.

"So what we can deduce is that Dr. Clarkson has kept a few…Walkers…prisoner, then? That he's locked them up somewhere and has observed them die of starvation?"

Mr. Carson seemed to have recovered and simply nodded his head. "Yes, but…I think he's trying to find a cure."

Elsie's eyebrows rose at this. "A cure?"

He nodded. "He didn't give any specifics, other than…" he paused, his face twisting in disgust at the memory.

"Mr. Carson, I demand that you tell me. I am not some delicate flower who will be in need of smelling salts if you repeat what he said!"

He looked at her with wide eyes, and once again began to sputter. "I…I never thought you were!"

"Good!" she drank the last of her sherry and more or less slammed the glass down on the table next to his. "So? Tell me!"

He rolled his eyes, took a deep breath…and then, rather quickly, repeated what the doctor had said. "He said that if there is a cure, it would only be able to work on…on newly…" he paused and took another deep breath. "On newly rejuvenated corpses; and those that are the most intact."

Elsie's eyes widened at this as his words sank in. The butler was reaching for the sherry bottle and pouring himself a healthy amount to drink after that piece of news. However, unlike her friend, she found that more fascinating than revolting.

"That makes sense," she murmured to herself. If a corpse was too far in its decomposition, there was little help for it. And of course, if a corpse had been damaged to such a point, as she had seen back when the attacks had first started—Walkers, moving without limbs or who had significant pieces of their flesh missing—then like those that were rotting, there was little help. But one that was fresh…and that hadn't suffered a great deal of damage or injury…was it possible? Could that Walker become a _person_ once again? "Do you think it's possible?"

Mr. Carson seemed to have recovered from the conversation. He lifted his shoulders, not exactly sure what to say, or believe for that matter. He knew what he wanted to believe, but…did he dare?

Instead, he changed the subject. "I'm worried about William."

Elsie politely shook her head to the offer for more sherry. "Has he made an appearance since returning?"

The butler shook his head. "After helping Mr. Branson up to his room, he muttered something about not feeling well and needing to lie down…and since then has refused to open his door, or come back downstairs. Mrs. Patmore even tried to lure him with some hot chocolate—you know how fond he is of the stuff…but not even that it seems, would do the trick."

Elsie's face wrinkled with unease at this. "Perhaps Capt. Crawley can shed some light on what happened? Maybe the poor lad simply saw something that was too…horrific to comprehend at the time?"

Yet even as she said this, she found herself frowning. William had faced many horrifying ordeals, be it what took place at the house back when everything started, to the escape from Malton, to the War itself! William was not one who folded under fear easily…so what could be the problem?

"I'll leave him be for the night," Mr. Carson sighed. "Hopefully a new day will bring him out of his troubles."

She hoped the same as well. "Well…I should go and see if Miss Swire requires anything," she announced, rising from her chair. "Poor dear; I still can't believe she managed to travel all that way from London all by herself! The bravery that must have taken!"

Mr. Carson didn't say anything and this only caused Elsie to frown. Did he have something against their newest guest? "You don't think that was brave?"

He looked up at her, and quickly shook his head. "No, no, it's not that…"

"Then what?" Elsie asked, her tone a little demanding. What faults could the butler find in such a girl? Granted, Elsie didn't know Miss Swire at all, other than her name, but she seemed like a sweet girl in the few exchanges they had had, not to mention Miss Swire and her father were responsible for Capt. Crawley's safety and survival, after he awoke from his coma. And she did think the young woman very brave, to not only venture all that way from London to Yorkshire in search of Capt. Crawley, but also to have a frying pan of all things as her only weapon! "Don't tell me you suspect her to blow up the house as you suspect Mr. Branson—"

"Good God, of course not!" Mr. Carson looked rather embarrassed at her accusation. "No, it's nothing like that, I just…" he stood and straightened his jacket. "I just think…it will be good having her here."

This surprised Elsie. Mr. Carson always seemed suspicious of any sort of change, including hosting strangers. "And why do you say that?"

"Well…" he still looked a little flustered. "It seems that both she and Capt. Crawley are…close."

Elsie's eyebrows flew up at this. "I beg your pardon?" What on earth was he insinuating?

His face was growing redder by the second, and he was clearly uncomfortable to be talking about this at all. "I just mean that…that she will be a good distraction for Capt. Crawley."

"Distraction?" Elsie couldn't help but groan and shake her head. "Why do you care about Capt. Crawley being distracted?"

She shouldn't have been too surprised by his answer. After all, Elsie always knew who the butler favored over any other person in that house. "Because then he can leave Lady Mary in peace."

* * *

She should be going downstairs to have breakfast. But she needed to see him. She had some questions that desperately needed to be answered…and so here she was, in a place she wasn't supposed to be, a place where her father would throw an absolute fit if he knew she was there…but she didn't care. Not anymore. She was determined to make a change with her life…and it was going to start today.

She peered down the corridor, noting that it was empty for the most part. All of the other servants were downstairs, hopefully. She had been careful not to pass Mrs. Hughes or Carson on her way up the servant's staircase; they would ask her questions and no doubt try to put a stop to her if they knew her destination.

On quiet footsteps…she approached his door, and with a deep breath, lifted her hand to knock. _Best not just walk in on him; what if he's naked! _Good Lord! The thought caused her to blush.

"Who's there?" she heard his voice call out on the other side of the door. She thought of answering…but instead chose to turn the doorknob and enter, just in case he tried to send her away.

He was in bed still, and she felt her cheeks glow as she took in the sight of him in his manner of undress (he wasn't naked or shirtless, but the shirt he did wear was not the sort a woman—especially an unmarried woman—should see a man wearing.

He sat up a little straighter and stared at her with wide eyes as she quietly leaned against the door to shut it.

"Milady!" he gasped. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the rather modest way he gripped his sheets, practically bringing them up to his chin to cover himself. So men could be modest too, it seemed. "I…" he stammered. "Beggin' your pardon, but…what are you doing here?"

"I needed to speak with you; it's a matter of great importance."

"I…I um…" he swallowed, as if trying to find the proper words to say. "It must be discussed right now?"

Her brow furrowed at this question. "Are you going somewhere?" She winced a little; that didn't sound very friendly. "Forgive me, I just…I thought _now_ would be the best time to talk, before anyone else came up to check on you."

He glanced nervously at the door, but gave a small nod of his head…and began to relax a little, or at least seemed to relax a little; his clutch on the sheet seemed to be a little looser. "How can I help?"

"I want you to teach me to shoot."

His eyes widened at this. "Milady—"

"Please," she held a hand up. "I think we can dispense with the formalities; at least when it's just the two of us."

He stared at her and then gave a shake of his head, as if trying to clear it. "That's all very well and good, milady, but…why come and ask me this question? Surely Matthew or even William could—"

"I'm sure they could, but I want _you_ to be the one to teach me." _Because unlike the others, I don't think you'll hold anything back; I think you'll see me as an equal; and hopefully recognize within me someone who desperately wants to fight._

He looked at her and she didn't blink. Lord, she hoped he could read her eyes and see the desire for this in their depths. _Please don't reject me; I've been rejected my whole life it seems, and…and I need this, desperately. Please…help me._

"Alright," he murmured at last. "I don't know how much good I'll be today—"

"I don't mind waiting," she assured him. "In fact, I'll go and fetch Dr. Clarkson for you right now if you'd like? To make sure you're well enough to leave your bed?"

He didn't answer, he simply (bashfully it seemed) looked at the ground, his arms folded across his chest.

She decided to take matters into her own hands. "Right, well…yes, I'll go and fetch Dr. Clarkson then."

"Thank you, milady," he replied as she opened the door once again.

"Oh don't thank me yet, Branson," she sighed. "And besides, shouldn't I be the one to thank you for agreeing to do this?"

"Well…not to throw your own words back at you, milady, but…don't thank me just yet, either."

For some reason, this did cause her to smile, and she even found herself giggling.

_Ask him. Don't just end it there; ask him what you have been thinking about ever since you met him!_ She nibbled her lip and glanced out through the crack in the door, just to make sure no one else was there. They would find her next question to be quite scandalous if they heard it.

"Branson…there's one other thing…"

He looked confused. "Milady?"

"Edith, please," she corrected, taking a note out of baby sister's rulebook. "I was just…I was also wondering if perhaps you would be so kind…as to teach me how to drive as well?"

* * *

After being taken to her room, Lavinia had chosen to spend the rest of the night there. The housekeeper was very kind in bringing her a tray of food, and for the first time in what felt like years, she had a proper bath, and Lord, it felt heavenly. Also, the bed in which she slept was ten times softer than her old bed back in London…and certainly an improvement to the hard ground or hay bales she had slept on during her journey to Yorkshire. Yes, as far as survival went, this place was perfect.

But it was a new day now, and as tempting as it was to stay in her room, continue sleeping and lounging and pretending that the apocalypse hadn't occurred, she knew she should get up and face the day…and whatever lay in store. Not to mention, she dearly wanted to see Matthew again.

Just as she was preparing to leave her room, a knock sounded on her door. Before Lavinia could even murmur "come in!" the door had opened and the ginger-haired maid who had helped her with her bath the previous evening entered, looking irritated and put out that she was there in the first place. "Oh…I thought you might need help getting dressed," the maid mumbled.

It had been a very long time since Lavinia had the help of a housemaid when it came to dressing, and even then it was only if she were going to wear a special gown. She had learned a long time ago how to dress and prepare herself, and she had treated today as if it were any other.

"Oh…no, no, thank you though, but I'm fine."

The housemaid mumbled something under her breath, before turning and shutting the door without a curtsey. Not that Lavinia really minded; in some ways, she found herself relating to the housemaid. _It seems rather strange, and perhaps a little silly, that the Crawley's are keeping all these…traditions…despite what's happening outside._

Lavinia left her room and began walking down the corridor…only to realize after she had taken ten steps…she had no idea where she was going! Nothing looked familiar…and she didn't see any stairs ahead…perhaps it was the other way? She turned to do just that, and gasped as she nearly bumped into—

Oh Lord…

"Good morning, Miss Swire," Lady Mary greeted, a small, prim smile on the corners of her lips, but it was unclear if there was any…friendliness…in the woman's tone.

"Good morning…" Lavinia replied, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat and trying to look brave. She didn't know this woman…other than the fact that she was Matthew's cousin. His very _beautiful_ cousin. And she felt rather plain, standing next to her just now.

"Did you sleep well?"

Lavinia swallowed and nodded her head. "Yes, thank you. The bed was most comfortable."

Lady Mary smiled again, her mouth a simple, upturned line, nothing more. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. Mrs. Hughes does go to a great deal of trouble to make sure everything is as it should be, just in case we do find ourselves with a guest."

Lavinia wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "Well…please, offer her my thanks."

"I'm sure you can offer it yourself, later."

She wasn't sure what to make of that, but Lavinia forced a smile and nodded her head.

"Are you going down for breakfast?"

Once again, Lavinia nodded. "I um…would you be so kind as to show me the way?"

Lady Mary smiled again, only this time it seemed a little wider…and not as cold or unsettling. "Of course…follow me." She turned and began to lead the way.

Lady Mary was a tall woman, and she had a very wide stride. Lavinia found that she had to move quickly in order to keep up. "I'm sorry to hear about your horse," she said as they were moving down the corridor.

Lavinia was a little surprised by the statement, but simply mumbled a polite, "thank you".

"I love horses," Lady Mary explained. "I loved riding; it was my favorite thing to do…of course, we don't have horses anymore," she said with what sounded like genuine sadness.

Lavinia wasn't sure what to say exactly, other than offer some sort of condolence for this sad fact.

The silence that fell between them was suddenly very awkward…or at least it felt that way to Lavinia. Matthew hadn't told her anything his reasons for coming to Downton or his connection to the Crawley's. And even though she had asked him who Mary was, when she had heard him say the woman's name in his sleep, he avoided the subject as much as possible and simply replied that she was his cousin. But Lavinia had a feeling…Lady Mary was a great deal more.

"Your house is lovely!" she said, feeling compelled to say something.

Lady Mary seemed surprised by this and turned to look at her. "Thank you…" she murmured, as if she too was unsure exactly in how to respond.

Lavinia forced a smile. "When Matthew told me about journeying to Yorkshire to find his family, I confess…I never imagined he would be coming to a place like this!"

Lady Mary frowned slightly. "Matthew didn't mention Downton?"

Lavinia shook her head. "He…merely said he had family in Yorkshire."

Lady Mary didn't say anything further. In fact, she shrugged her shoulders as if she didn't care…but Lavinia sensed that wasn't entirely true.

"So he didn't tell you that he's the future earl?"

Lavinia practically stumbled over her feet. "W-w-what?"

Lady Mary turned back and nodded her head. "Yes, Matthew is the future Earl of Grantham; he's Papa's heir."

No…that was something Matthew _had not_ told her. Now it made sense as to why he had been summoned to Downton…and why he had told her he couldn't leave.

_But does any of that matter, considering the way the world is now?_

"So really, when you think about it…" Lady Mary continued, stopping just before they reached a room (Lavinia didn't even realize they had descended the stairs), "…I suppose we are in your debt."

Lavinia looked up at the dark-haired woman and for a moment the two of them just stared at each other…as some sort of silent understanding fell between them. They then both turned towards the door…and entered the breakfast room together.

Matthew happened to be sitting at the table, and quickly rose to his feet upon seeing them. Lavinia met his eyes, but she did not smile. Matthew held her gaze before letting his eyes flit from hers to Lady Mary's…who was also, not smiling.

"Good…morning…?" Matthew murmured, shifting a little uneasily on his feet. Lavinia noticed that of the two vacant chairs at the table…only one was directly next to him. She turned her head then to Lady Mary…who was also looking back at her…and Lavinia could see in the woman's eyes, that she too had made the same observation.

"Oh good," the Dowager Countess murmured from the corner where she sat, seeming to have noticed the rather awkward silence that suddenly filled the room. "Some proper entertainment, finally; breakfast used to be such a dull affair."


	22. Seeking

_Thanks again for all the wonderful feedback, and a special thanks to all the new story readers and followers! Things continue building, drawing closer and closer to some explosive revelations. I wrote this chapter to be a "Valentine's Day Alternative", however there are some "shippy moments" (it's hard to escape that when writing DA fic!) But some moments especially for Chelsie and Banna fans, as well as a few others! Hope you enjoy and thank you again for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

"**Seeking"**

She was worried.

She hadn't seen hide or hair of him since the previous day when he had returned with Capt. Crawley, Mr. Branson, and Thomas. She had been worried for him (William sometimes let his bravery get the better of him) but never had she seen him like this…just looking so…defeated.

"Daisy! You're not done washing those?" Mrs. Patmore chastised as she looked over the kitchen maid's shoulder to observe the lack of scrubbing she was administrating to the breakfast plates and bowls.

"Sorry, Mrs. Patmore," she mumbled, quickly trying to look busy.

The cook frowned. "What's wrong? You've been looking that way ever since last night."

Daisy bit her lip…and glanced over at the cook. Despite the woman's harsh tone, she did feel that the two of them had grown close, and she certainly had come to respect the cook, as well as look up to her. And she did feel she could trust Mrs. Patmore enough to share her worries.

"It's William," Daisy finally confessed. "I'm worried for him!"

Mrs. Patmore's brow furrowed. "Worried?"

Daisy nodded her head. "You didn't see him last night, Mrs. Patmore, but I did; I caught a glimpse of him, and…I don't know how to describe it, but…the way he looked, he just…something's wrong!"

Daisy saw some of the concern she felt mirrored in the cook's eyes, however Mrs. Patmore was a stalwart sort, and always tried to find a bright side (at least when it concerned others). "Well…can you blame the lad? After all, he and Mr. Branson had to go into that hospital and find both Thomas and Capt. Crawley—"

"Yes, I know what you mean, but…William's faced greater danger than that; he didn't look like this when he got back from Malton, or from the War! No…this isn't like him, Mrs. Patmore, something's wrong!"

"Calm down, calm down," the cook shushed. "Maybe he's feeling sick, that's all? He didn't come down for breakfast, did he? No…I'm sure he's just feeling under the weather; no sense in worrying about anything yet! And remember, we have a doctor in the house now, so just…give the lad some time, I'm sure everything is fine."

Daisy forced a smile, but the truth was…she didn't believe it. She didn't believe William was feeling "under the weather" as Mrs. Patmore had put it. She didn't believe that he was "simply fatigued" after the events of yesterday, and therefore just needed some rest. She certainly didn't believe that "everything was fine". No…something was wrong, she could feel it in the pit of her stomach. And it worried her. It worried her a great deal…

As soon as she finished washing the dishes, he began her other duties around the kitchens, including peeling potatoes for a potato stew that Mrs. Patmore was planning on serving for luncheon. She was sick of potatoes; it seemed that all they ate anymore was potatoes.

While peeling, she heard the sounds of guns being fired. She jumped at the sound, and then realized that it was coming from the side yard, where William had been trying to teach her how to shoot the other day. Her heart leapt at this realization; was he outside, providing lessons once again? She put the potato and peeler down and quickly rushed across the kitchen to a window, to peer outside and see if William was indeed out there.

She frowned.

She saw Capt. Crawley…the woman who had returned with William and Mr. Branson…and Mrs. Hughes. But no sign of William.

This wasn't like him. Yesterday, William couldn't wait to teach her how to use a pistol! In fact, his pestering had gotten so bad that she only agreed to do it if it would mean that he stop bothering her. Their lesson had been interrupted when Sir Richard, Lady Mary, and Anna had returned with Dr. Clarkson. William would have wanted to carry on from where they had left off…and yet…he wasn't about.

Indeed, something was wrong. And even though she wasn't entirely sure how deep her feelings went for the former footman, she at least knew her heart well enough to know that if something was troubling him, she wanted to help him and make it right.

* * *

For the first time in what felt like years…he had slept peacefully. He didn't even mind when the invading sun fell upon his face…especially since he knew only one person would be in his room, pulling the curtains back.

"Good morning…" he groggily greeted, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. She turned and smiled back, and John Bates thought he had never been greeted by a lovelier scene.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, crossing the room to where he lay and placing a hand upon his brow. He saw relief wash over her face as she touched his cool brow. There was no trace of fever from the previous days, and the pain had dulled significantly. While he knew he was a long way from a full recovery, for the first time in days he actually felt like he was recovering.

"Much better," he answered honestly, his hand reaching out for hers. Anna smiled and quickly took it, her fingers interweaving and squeezing his. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed her fingers against them. He hated giving her any cause for worry, and even though he knew she would never admit it, he could only imagine the sleepless nights she had forced herself through while he was lying here.

Anna smiled down at him…and then the next thing John heard was the sound of a pair of shoes being kicked off and hitting the floor, and smiled surprisingly as Anna scooted herself up onto the bed, until she was nestled in the crook of his arm, and her head was rest over his chest. He couldn't help but chuckle. "Much, _much_ better now," he laughed, happy to hear her own giggle as he wrapped an arm around her. "Of course, what will Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes think if they find us so?"

"For starters, we're engaged," Anna answered. "And second of all…both of them are outside right now. Capt. Crawley is teaching Mrs. Hughes how to shoot."

John's eyes widened at this. "And Mr. Carson is allowing it?"

"His Lordship finally—" Anna paused and gave a polite cough, changing her words slightly. "His Lordship has come around to agreeing with Capt. Crawley's view, that everyone be trained and prepared in case…in case the need should arise."

John didn't say anything, but he silently agreed with the good captain that this was the right step to take. As much as he respected and admired his Lordship, he did feel, sometimes, that his friend was hiding from the harsh realities that they were all facing. It was a different sort of war, unlike any they had ever faced before. And all of them would need to fight.

"Lady Sybil will be pleased," John remarked, thinking about how eager the youngest daughter was in learning how to shoot.

Anna giggled and realized that John hadn't heard the latest stories involving Lady Sybil's "adventures" with Mr. Branson. In fact, she realized then that her fiancée was quite out of the loop on many things. Oh dearly she would love to lay like this with him for the rest of the day and tell him those stories, from the arrival of the mysterious Irishman, to shocking revelations by Dr. Clarkson, to Capt. Crawley being reunited with the woman who had saved him in London.

Anna frowned as she thought about Miss Swire…and how stiff and distant Lady Mary had seemed in the young woman's presence. Ethel had seen to Miss Swire when she went to settle in her room, and if she were not by Mr. Bates' side, she was either in the dining room helping Mr. Carson, or with Lady Mary…who was very quiet, save for one thing…

"We owe her a great deal I suppose…"

"Owe who, milady?"

"Miss Swire…for saving the life of Downton's future earl, of course."

Anna didn't say anything further, nor did Lady Mary. The subject had ended, and the rest of the evening passed in silence. But she was no fool; Anna knew that Lady Mary wasn't grateful for Capt. Crawley's safety simply because he was the future earl. It was something that she had believed for a long time, but had kept her thoughts and opinions to herself.

Anna knew that Lady Mary was in love with Capt. Crawley…and…she believed that Lady Mary was still in love with him.

But things were complicated now. _Very_ complicated. Sir Richard was there, of course, and while no one knew a great deal about Miss Swire, it didn't take Anna long to realize that Miss Swire…cared, at the very least, for Capt. Crawley. It certainly seemed that way to her; after all…didn't Miss Swire look at Capt. Crawley the same way she had once looked at Mr. Bates, when he had first arrived at Downton?

"What's the matter?" John asked, sensing something in the silence that had passed between them.

It wasn't her place to say, so she simply rose up from where she had been nestled and put on a little pout. "Simply…that I have to get back to work, even though I would much rather spend the day here, with you."

He smiled at her and gave her hand a little tug, which caused her to fall back into his arms. As if she minded. She smiled against his lips, and easily let herself float away into the bliss she always felt when John Bates kissed her.

_We're the lucky ones_, she found herself thinking. She always felt guilty for thinking this, simply because she did care a great deal for Lady Mary; perhaps it was naïve of her to think this way, but she did think of the eldest Crawley daughter as her friend. Yet, the more and more she watched Lady Mary interact with Sir Richard, the more and more Anna could see that her mistress did not love him. _It's funny, sometimes, when you think about it; they say money can't buy happiness, and perhaps whoever said that really is right? I'm just a housemaid, and yet…I couldn't be happier. _

"Now what are you thinking?" she heard her Mr. Bates ask. She opened her eyes and looked down at him, a blush coloring her cheeks as he saw some mischief in their dark depths.

"How blessed we are," she answered honestly. "And…how despite this nightmare we all seem to be living in…I'm grateful to have you here, to face it with me."

The mischief in his eyes faded to sweet tenderness…and she felt his hand move behind her head, and pull her back again for another kiss, a deeper kiss, the sort that they shared when they were certain no one would find them.

Only when air became necessary, did Anna pulled away, but not without some reluctance. "I best be going," she sighed with reluctance. "Otherwise…I'll be tempted to take advantage of you."

"I'm shocked Miss Smith!" he gasped, feigning to look shocked.

She giggled. "No you're not; if I had had my way, we _wouldn't_ be waiting."

It was a rare thing, making John Bates blush. And yet Anna Smith had a talent for doing it.

"Go on," he sighed, giving her hand a kiss before releasing her fingers and watching her rise back to her feet. "Why don't you go outside and show everyone what I've taught you? Teach those amateurs how to really shoot."

She laughed, before leaning over, giving his brow a kiss, and murmuring "I love you". He repeated the words to her, meaning each and every one, a thousand times over, before watching her leave the room.

Only until after she had left, did he let his smile fall. We could have been married by now, he thought with some frustration. Yes…they could have been married by now…if his wife had agreed to their divorce in the first place.

Vera Bates, his estranged wife. He had been trying for so long to get a divorce, trying so hard to get her to sign the bloody papers, but there was always some excuse to be given, always some reason for her to go back on her promise and release him from his hellish union to her. Then everything happened…and John had no idea if she was alive or dead.

Anna knew about Vera, Anna had even met the horrid woman. Anna was a saint in her patience with him, but at the same time, he knew that it was killing her, having to put their lives, their hopes for the future on hold, while Vera attempted to fight against the divorce. Anna had even once told him that she was willing to become his mistress, that she didn't care about her reputation, that she loved him and that was all that mattered. God in heaven, it took every fiber of strength that he had to turn such a temptation away. In fact, the only thing that overrode his lust at such an offer was his love for the head housemaid. She may not care about her reputation, but he did. And she was not the sort of woman to be taken to bed as a mistress. No…when John Bates took Anna to his bed, it would be as his wife, and only as his wife.

But what now? Vera was most likely dead, as were so many others. And in _this world_ in which they lived now, did things like marriage licenses, rings, and vicars matter? And even if Vera was alive out there…would someone really arrest him and lock him, now, for committing bigamy?

If his near-death experience in Malton had taught him anything, it was that life was indeed too short and too precious, especially now.

_When I'm well, when I'm healed, I'll put things to right, he vowed. It's time for this period of waiting to end. It's time to make Anna Smith…Anna Bates._

* * *

She wasn't supposed to be up here. She could be sacked for doing what she was doing…and yet…she wanted to make sure he was alright. Besides, Mrs. Patmore had wandered out to the yard where the others were, perhaps to have Capt. Crawley train her as well? She had been instructed to continue peeling potatoes, but as soon as the Downton cook had left, she took her chance and raced up the servant stairs to the servant's quarters…and now here she was…_on the men's side!_

William is the only one here, Daisy reminded herself. Everyone else is gone, no one will see you! Still, she was taking very tentative steps as she approached his door…or…at least she hoped this was his door? She didn't know, she had never been on this side of the house before! But she thought she had remembered hearing something about William's door being on the right-hand side of the corridor, third down—or was it fourth? Did it matter? She could just knock on all of them and wait until he finally came to open it.

_I'll start with the third one down,_ she told herself. Start here and go from there. _Oh please answer it as soon as I knock! At least call out to me! _ She would feel very foolish, standing there and waiting for a response. And she couldn't open the door, even if it were unlocked; that was a step she didn't dare take! At least…not yet.

Daisy took a deep breath, lifted her fist, prepared to knock—

"Daisy?"

She nearly screeched, startled to hear someone else say her name. "OH!" she turned and was clutching her chest, the palms of her hands flat against her heart, as if checking to see if it were still beating. "Lady Sybil! I…I didn't know you were up here!"

Lady Sybil smiled and looked apologetic. "Oh dear, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, I…I just came up here to check on To—Mr. Branson," she coughed, her face flushing slightly. "But…he's not in his room. Did you see him? Or did Dr. Clarkson come up and…?"

Daisy shook her head. She hadn't seen Mr. Branson since the previous day, when William helped Lady Sybil take him to his room. She had made some broth for him last night, which Mrs. Hughes had taken up, but that was it. And if he had come down for some breakfast, he must have done so when she was busy cleaning up in the kitchens.

"I'm sorry, milady—I haven't seen him, I'm afraid."

If it were anyone else, Daisy would have felt the need to beg forgiveness for being on male servant's side of the house, as well as ask them to not say a word to Mr. Carson. But she knew she didn't have to ask such things of Lady Sybil. Lady Sybil was nice; she liked Lady Sybil and always had. In some ways, Lady Sybil seemed more like one of them, than one of her own kind.

Lady Sybil looked frustrated, but thankfully not with herself. She murmured her thanks and forced a smile, before turning and going the opposite direction, the one Daisy had just come from. Daisy waited until she could no longer hear Lady's Sybil's feet on the staircase, before once again taking a deep breath, and this time, letting her fist knock on the door in front of her.

She waited…

Nothing.

"William?" she called out, but her voice remained soft. "William…?"

Nothing.

Maybe she had the wrong door?

Maybe he wasn't there?

Maybe—

"Go away, Daisy."

She practically jumped at the sound of his voice. It was him! Not only was she at the right door, but he was inside! She began to knock again, only louder and with more urgency. "William, please open the door! William, please come to the door and let me speak to you! William, please—"

The door opened, but only a crack.

"I'm not feeling very well, Daisy, so…please…just leave me alone."

It wasn't cruel, his words. But something _was_ wrong. She could tell—and it had nothing to do with sickness.

"Capt. Crawley is outside, with the others—he's going to teach them how to shoot, just as you were teaching me yesterday!"

He made no sound. In fact, she could barely see him through the crack in his door. No lamp was on inside; it was like a tomb, in some respects.

"So…so I was thinking…maybe you could help?" she continued, trying to be encouraging to her friend. "And…and we could resume our lesson from yesterday?"

He frowned—or so that was what it looked like, from what she could see. "You don't like shooting."

No, she didn't. She hated it, in fact. But if that was what it took to get him to come out of his room…

"It just…it startled me, is all," she mumbled, hoping he would accept her answer and not question it further. "But…but I'll get the hang of it, so…so why don't you come back with me, and we can—"

"Thank you, Daisy, but…but no," he muttered, starting to shut the door. "Capt. Crawley can do a much better job than I."

Why so defeatist? What had happened yesterday?

"But…but Capt. Crawley can't teach all of us! I mean, he's just one man; he needs you, William, he depends on you! And I've no idea where Mr. Branson is—"

The door suddenly slammed shut, as if by mentioning the Irishman's name had caused some sort of offense. However, it was his next words that caused her brow to furrow and a chill to run down her spine.

"Why not ask Thomas to teach you? He's very good at not showing mercy!"

What on earth? Surely William didn't think she was still sweet on Thomas? Was that what this was all about? No…no, it couldn't possibly…could it?

"William, please…open the door! I…I don't care about that, I don't want Thomas to—"

"Don't want 'me' to what?"

She froze and turned her head to see the very man to whose name she had just spoken in vein. Speak of the devil indeed.

"T-t-thomas," she stuttered slightly. Now this could be trouble. Thomas would have no qualm in going and telling Mr. Carson where he had found her.

Despite the rule about not smoking inside, Thomas was already striking a match to light a cigarette. "What are you doing up here, Daisy? You shouldn't be up here…let alone on this side of the house."

She coughed as he blew a cloud of smoke her way. Where had he come from? Had he been in his room? Oh Lord, what would he say? What would he do?

"Leave her alone," a voice growled from her shoulder. Daisy turned and saw that William's door had opened, and he was glaring at Thomas, his face now in full view for her to see.

Thomas grinned at the sight of William, but it was by no means a friendly grin. It reminded her of a snake…slithering up to his prey, charming it before the strike.

"I was simply asking her a question," Thomas murmured, now blowing a cloud of smoke near William. "Figured Mr. Carson would like to know the answer when I tell him—"

"Oh Thomas! Please…I…I was just worried about William, I hadn't seen him since he came back last night, and…and I just…please, please don't say anything to Mr. Carson—or Mrs. Hughes, or Mrs. Patmore—"

"Don't worry, Daisy, he won't," William snarled, his eyes never leaving those of the other footman. "Go back to the kitchens…I'll talk with you later."

She bit her lip and hesitated, glancing between the two men…each of whom at one point had fought of her, in a manner of speaking (although she knew better now that Thomas had only used her to get at William).

"Go on," William encouraged.

She looked again at Thomas, who was still smiling, but who shifted his gaze from William back to her. "Better listen to him, Daisy; before anyone else catches you where you shouldn't be."

Yes…yes, she should just go. She gave one last, fleeting look to William, before turning and scurrying down the corridor, back to the staircase she had just emerged…but instead of running all the way down, she paused and waited, just around the corner, her hears straining to catch any conversation that took place between the two.

"That was sweet of her, wasn't it?"

"How long have you been in there," William growled.

"Been in where?"

"Are you spying on me?"

"Spying!" Thomas laughed. "Why would I be spying on you?"

"To make sure I don't…" William's voice suddenly paused. Had he simply stopped talking? Or…was he speaking so quietly that she couldn't hear him?

"When are you going to tell him?" William asked, his voice no longer sounding as defensive as earlier. Now…she could hear a sense of desperateness.

"Why do you care?"

"THOMAS!" William practically shouted, causing Daisy to jump from where she was hiding. "A man could DIE because of—"

"PIPE DOWN!" Thomas hissed.

William didn't seem to understand the threat. "We _have_ to tell him! You promised you would tell him—"

"Better keep your cool, William—or I'll be forced to say something else to Capt. Crawley."

There was a long pause, and Daisy wondered if the conversation were over. Who were they talking about? A man could die? And what did Thomas mean, going and saying something to Capt. Crawley?

"I don't care…" William sighed. "I should have said something a long time ago…I…I should have told Capt. Crawley myself."

"William—"

"Your threats mean nothing to me!" William growled. "I'm giving you until sundown to say something to Mr. Branson—_or I will!"_

What she heard next was Thomas' fists pounding against William's door. She knew she should go before he came stalking down the corridor in a huff; she did not want to be discovered, let alone be on the receiving end of Thomas' anger. She hurried away, back to the kitchens where she was supposed to be, back to her potatoes and the task she had at hand.

But she couldn't stop thinking about the argument she had just heard…and how somehow, Mr. Branson was connected to it! And what did William mean about how he should have gone to Capt. Crawley a long time ago? What was that all about? She still had more questions than answers, but…there was one answer that she had gained in all this.

Thomas—surprise, surprise—was involved. And he clearly was behind the reason as to why William was behaving as he was.

* * *

Charles Carson was not pleased.

He did not agree with this, at all. In his opinion, Capt. Crawley had overstepped his boundaries and had forgotten just whose house he was staying at, just who had taken him in, and just who was in charge. In Charles' eyes, Capt. Crawley was a nothing more than a bully who had used fear and panic as a means to guilt his Lordship into allowing such barbarism to take place.

He looked on from where he stood, near the Servant's entrance, with nothing but absolute disdain, while Capt. Crawley proceeded to show Mrs. Hughes the proper way to hold a rifle. He wasn't sure what upset him more…the fact that Elsie Hughes, a woman he both respected and admired, was holding a dangerous weapon…or the fact that it was Capt. Crawley teaching her how to use it.

"Carson?"

He turned and looked down, surprised to see the youngest lady of the house gazing up at him. She was dressed in her nurse's uniform, right down to the white head scarf that covered a majority of her hair. It seemed that ever since Mr. Branson had arrived at their doorstep, she was often wearing this uniform from days as an auxiliary nurse.

"Have you seen Branson?"

Charles felt his jaw clench at the sound of the Irishman's name. _That hooligan is nothing but trouble, I'm convinced of it!_ Of course, he couldn't say that in front of her. Although he wondered if perhaps he should; he had noticed how…fond…Lady Sybil seemed to have become with the chauffeur.

"No, milady," he answered, his voice tight and clipped. "I assumed he is still in bed, recovering after yesterday's ordeal."

He glanced down at her when he didn't hear a response, and thought he saw a blush rise to her cheek. However, before he could question the strange look in her eyes, he practically jumped at the sound of a gun firing.

"Good God!" he gasped, nearly stumbling backwards.

Lady Sybil gripped his arm, as if to keep him upright. Yes, the last thing he needed was to sprain another ankle.

Mrs. Hughes had yelped at the power of the rifle blast…but…she was smiling! She was actually smiling! She looked so pleased with herself (even though she hadn't hit a single target that Capt. Crawley had set up). But she was clearly pleased that she had…fired the weapon at all, it seemed.

"Why are you so against women learning how to defend themselves?"

He looked down at Lady Sybil, his head still spinning at what had just taken place with Mrs. Hughes. "I…I beg your pardon, milady?"

Lady Sybil opened her mouth to repeat herself, but was cut short by another voice. "Stop bullying Carson with your questions," Lady Mary muttered, coming up to stand on the butler's other side.

Lady Sybil frowned. "I wasn't bullying; but surely Carson you see the value in allowing women the opportunity to learn and understand how to defend themselves, and others! I mean, what if something happened—"

"Dr. Clarkson was asking for you," Lady Mary interrupted, looking rather pointedly at her sister. "He's in the library with Papa, Sir Richard, and Granny; no doubt it has something to do with medicine, Bates most likely."

Lady Sybil was still frowning, and she kept glancing up at him, but then gave what could only be described as a "sigh of surrender", and proceeded to go back inside.

"I'm afraid I was naughty just then, Carson," Lady Mary murmured.

He turned and gazed at the other Crawley sister. "Dr. Clarkson wasn't asking for her?"

Lady Mary guiltily looked up at him and gave him a bit of a cheeky smile. "It just seemed a bit early for sermonizing."

He couldn't help but chuckle at her words. "Ah well…Lady Sybil means well, I know."

Lady Mary nodded. "Yes…but I sometimes fear she can easily be misled."

He didn't say anything to that, even though he did agree with her. Silence passed between the two of them as they watched Capt. Crawley continue in his lessons. Mrs. Hughes wasn't his only pupil; Mrs. Patmore, much to his shock and dismay, had joined the fray, as had their newest guest, Miss Swire. Charles recalled how the previous evening, he had told Mrs. Hughes that he was glad for Miss Swire's presence. He hoped the young woman would be a welcome distraction for Capt. Crawley, which would mean that Lady Mary would be left in peace. He feared that his Lordship's heir was…complicating things…and resurrecting old and painful memories to his favorite amongst the Crawley daughters.

However…perhaps it was too late? Charles couldn't help but look on with worry, as he noticed the way Lady Mary watched Capt. Crawley come around Miss Swire, to help her take the proper stance in how to correctly hold the rifle.

"I wonder…" Lady Mary suddenly murmured, her voice sounding airy and tight, as if she were trying to be lighthearted, despite the subject matter. "I wonder, Carson…if…if we are looking the future, here."

He frowned and lifted a bushy eyebrow at her words. "The future, milady?"

Lady Mary simply nodded. "Are we gazing upon the future Earl and Countess of Grantham?"

She was smiling…and yet he could see the pain and the regret in the depth of her brown eyes. It caused his heart to squeeze at the sight. "There is only one future Countess of Grantham, milady…and I am looking at her."

"Oh Carson," Lady Mary groaned. "I cannot be the heir; the law says—"

"What law?" he interrupted, feeling his frustration kindle. "Do such laws exist in this world?" It was the most radical thing he had said in recent history, and yet…Charles had meant it, when he had told her there was only one future heir to Downton Abbey, and it was not Capt. Crawley, and it certainly would be Miss Swire, not if he had anything to say about it.

Lady Mary gave him a smile…and then leaned up on her tip toes to brush a little kiss against his cheek. "You're too kind…far kinder than I deserve," she murmured. "But no; I will never be Countess of Grantham—unless of course I marry the future earl, but…" her voice trailed off as she gazed at Capt. Crawley again. "But that's impossible because I'm engaged to Sir Richard!"

His heart still squeezed with pity for her. He hadn't missed how forced her words sounded, upon mentioning the newspaperman's name.

"Oh look!" Lady Mary said, trying to draw his attention away from her. She was pointing towards Mrs. Hughes, who was once again holding the rifle. "Do you think she'll make her target this time?"

Charles watched, and felt his frown only grow all the more. Mrs. Hughes wasn't standing properly, despite the way Capt. Crawley had instructed. And…she seemed to be struggling, just a bit, with the rifle; at least her grip didn't look very secure…

Before he realized what he was doing, Charles was marching across the yard to where Mrs. Hughes was standing, his skin jumping just a bit as she blasted the gun, and like before, missed her target completely.

"For heaven's sakes," Charles grumbled upon reaching the others. "If you insist on going through with this, then at least hold it properly—"

Mrs. Hughes turned and stared up at him with wide, surprised eyes. "I beg your pardon?" she looked rather shocked that he was there at all, let alone attempting to give her advice in shooting.

"Your stance, your grip…you'll never make your target if you carry on as you are."

Mrs. Hughes' face turned a bright shade of red. "Capt. Crawley served in British Army, I think he knows what he's saying when he tells me to—OH!"

Charles did his best to maintain a look of stern indifference, despite the fact that he had taken both of Mrs. Hughes' arms, and was now mirroring how Capt. Crawley had just been standing with Miss Swire, with his arms around her, one hand holding hers at the base of the rifle, while the other clutched her elbow, bringing it up to steady her as she faced the target. It was difficult to look so indifferent, though…when his chest was pressed against Elsie Hughes' back.

"Good, firm, steady grip…" he instructed, trying to not let his mind wander elsewhere. Just because the world had sunk into an apocalypse, didn't mean that rules of decorum simply flew out the window. "Alright, do you understand?"

He didn't hear Mrs. Hughes answer, but he heard her mumble something. He knew he should take a step back before she fired…but despite that better judgment, he remained where he was, and waited…as she finally pulled the trigger, causing the both of them to stumble back from the force of the gun. Capt. Crawley stepped forward to grip his shoulder to keep him from stumbling too much…and Mrs. Hughes…well, she simply had stumbled against his chest.

"Oh well done!" Mrs. Patmore cried.

Charles looked up and saw what the Downton cook was talking about.

The target, an old pickle jar that Mrs. Patmore had supplied to Capt. Crawley for the purpose of this exercise, lay shattered in pieces on the ground. Mrs. Hughes had made her target.

"Well…" Mrs. Hughes murmured, taking a deep breath and pushing herself away from him. Charles swallowed and tried to look stern, despite the fact that he found he missed the feel of her the second she was no longer there. "Well…" she repeated herself. "Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Carson, but…I think I can proceed on my own."

"Yes, well…" he coughed, before taking another step away from her, and avoiding the eyes of anyone else. "Carry on, then, Mrs. Hughes, carry on."

* * *

Not so far away, a different sort of instruction was taking place.

"Break…break…BREAK!" he cried, ready to reach down and grab the lever himself. Thankfully, his new student listened (finally), and did as he instructed, grabbing hold of the lever and pulling it up, causing them both to nearly fly forward from the force.

This wasn't the first time that morning that Tom found himself wondering how he had allowed Lady Edith to convince him to give her driving lessons. In fact, they had spent far more time learning how to drive than how to shoot. While yes, the middle Crawley daughter seemed interested in knowing how to defend herself, she seemed far more interested in knowing how to…escape, should the need arise.

They needed more drivers, that was true. Between himself, Matthew, and Sir Richard (who was shaky at best) they had very little. And he wasn't going to be there for that much longer…at least, that was what he continued to keep telling himself. His optimism in finding his brother was beginning to seriously wane; he had hoped that perhaps the so-called "madman" that Sir Richard claimed to have seen in the hospital, was Kieran…but there were no traces of another human being in that place. No…it was probably a Walker, and Sir Richard had just mistaken him for something, or someone else.

_I need to leave,_ he told himself again. _I need to go and find him; it's been too long. I'll teach Lady Edith the basics, ask Capt. Crawley to continue with her lessons, and say my goodbyes._ That would be difficult; while people like Mr. Carson would be all too happy to see him go, he could see Matthew protesting at the thought. And then of course…there was Sybil.

No, no, he couldn't think like that. She was too far above him, she was…she was a Lady for God's sake! And he was servant! And…and her father would skin him alive if he did anything—

No. He had overstayed his welcome long enough. _The end of the week_, he thought. _I'll leave then. _

"Branson?"

He was brought out of his thoughts by Lady Edith, who was looking at him with a mixture of confusion, impatience, and worry.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Um…not bad, much better than last time," he told her, meaning it. They had left when it was quite early; he bypassed the Servant's Hall, where he could hear some of the bells ringing, announcing that the family was awake. Lady Edith, as she had told him, was waiting by the garage, looking eager and determined to get started. They took the Renault, and he prayed the sudden rush to go and check on the people upstairs would keep Mr. Carson and anyone else far too busy to pay any attention to the car that was leaving the Downton garage. He drove them to a secluded place, a country lane that was far overgrown, and here, Lady Edith began her first driving lessons.

Tom was impressed that she was not completely ignorant. While she had never driven a car before, she did know the names of certain instruments, as well as their functions. She understood the relationship between the clutch and the gas pedals; she understood how to shift gears to have the car go from one direction to the other, and despite some of the shaky and erratic and sharp turns that she had made…she also seemed to be perfectly calm, when behind the wheel.

_"You're a natural, milady," he had told her. "Are you sure no one has given you a lesson?" He had meant the words to be nothing but a harmless tease…however, he saw her face, which had been beaming with pride at his compliment, suddenly darken despair. "I…I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"_

_ She kept her attention to the road and proceeded to start the car once again. "I…I had a…" she paused, as if trying to collect herself. "A dear…friend…who was very fond of cars and driving," she explained. "He…he often took me for drives," she continued, a small smile spreading across her face at the memory. "I loved it; I loved any chance I could get to ride up front with him…"_

_ Tom didn't know a great deal about Lady Edith, in fact, this was the most time they had spoken, let alone been in one another's presences, since first meeting. Yet he recognized her wounded spirit, and even more so, her wounded heart. Whoever this "friend" was, of whom she spoke, it was quite clear that her feelings for the man ran far deeper than simple friendship. _

_ He was curious to learn more, but felt it too personal to ask. Besides, he needed to stop…caring, about these people. He would be leaving soon, and this time, he meant it. _

So the subject of Lady Edith's friend, who had obviously taught her a thing or two about cars, was dropped entirely, and they went back to their lessons, as if no conversation had taken place at all.

"We should probably head back," Tom murmured. The sun was climbing high overhead; no doubt it was getting closer and closer to midday, and no doubt they were all wondering where Lady Edith, and possibly his Lordship's Renault, had disappeared.

Lady Edith let out a rather unladylike snort at his words. "If you think they're wondering where I am, I can assure you, I haven't even crossed their minds."

He stared at her, surprised by her words, as well as by the harsh tone in which she spoke. "Milady?"

She looked at him and lifted a copper-colored eyebrow. "What, does that surprise you?" she asked. "It shouldn't. I may be the second sister, but I'm always last in their thinking."

Her bitterness was sharp, like a carving knife belonging to Mrs. Patmore. Tom was at an utter loss. To say _"no, that' can't be",_ would sound belittling. Still…he couldn't believe that things were that bad for her…surely?

She was staring straight ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel in such a way that he was sure her fingers would leave dents. "None of them would care if I disappeared," she whispered. "Well…Sybil might, but…the rest of them…" she shook her head. "They'd probably be glad; one less mouth to feed, one less person to worry about, if they worried about me at all…"

A person could simply write off Lady Edith's words as nothing more than a pity party for one. Yet…Tom didn't think it was that simple.

"Milady…" he found himself asking, his voice trying to remain calm, but at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder. "Why did you want driving lessons?"

She turned and looked at him then, and Tom was surprised to see the pain in her eyes. Pain that cut so deep, it broke his heart.

But it was what she said next that truly threw him.

"Can I go with you?"

He stared at her, blinking for a long time, not sure…had he heard her correctly?

"Please…I…I won't be a bother; just get me to York, and then you and your brother can do whatever you want—"

"Edith!" he said her name for the first time since her little encounter with him in his room, when she had come to make her request that he teach her how to shoot and drive. The sound of it certainly seemed to snap her back, and she was blushing with embarrassment, and looking back at the road again, the engine of the car still humming as it sat in its parked position.

"Milady…" he murmured again, going back to formalities. "Why do you want to go to York?"

She was biting her lip and trying very hard to keep the tears that were clearly swimming in her eyes at bay. "I…I'm just so…" she took a deep breath. "I hate it here," she confessed. "There's nothing but death and decay here! And…and…" she stopped then, and turned her head. Tom felt helpless; unsure what to say or do, yet at the same time, he couldn't stand to see her deal with this pain alone. So he reached out and touched her shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze, hoping that would be a enough, at least for now.

She seemed to draw strength from his touch, and lifted her head, looking forward, towards the road, and took another deep, cleansing breath. "Thank you," she whispered. He simply nodded and let his hand fall, once more. "I…I trust you will not say anything—"

"I'm fairly certain that I've broken half-dozen rules in bringing you out here, without a chaperone, teaching you how to shoot _and_ giving you a driving lesson..."

She laughed then, and Tom was glad. He liked Lady Edith. She wasn't as…unapproachable, as he had thought.

Still…her sudden plea that he let her leave with him did shock him. Was it really that bad? Or was there something else? Maybe it wasn't about escape? Maybe…like himself, Lady Edith was searching for something?

Or rather…_someone_…

* * *

Cora gazed out her window, hugging herself as she watched the others down below try shooting at numerous targets that had been set up by Matthew. Every time a gun was fired, Cora felt her skin leap. She hated the sound; she hated fighting of any sort.

"My grandmother would tell me stories when I was child, about what it was like, living in the Ohio River Valley, Kentucky on one side, Ohio on the other—she would tell us stories about battalions of Union and Confederate troops, marching to battle, and how late at night, the echo of gunfire could still be heard in the air."

"Sounds frightening," a voice replied.

She turned and smiled at her dear friend—O'Brien was so much more than "just" a lady's maid. "I thought so too," she sighed, looking back out the window. "And I blessedly thought, upon coming to England, that I would never have to worry about such things. The Boer War, and then the Great War…both happened on foreign soil, far from here, far from Downton. But…" she sighed and hugged herself even tighter as a shiver coursed through her body. "It seems we are to not be so lucky now."

"No harm will come to you, milady," O'Brien vowed, as she often did to ease her fears.

Cora smiled and turned back to her friend. "I know, O'Brien—and I know I can always count on you to look after me."

O'Brien swallowed and quickly turned her head, going back to whatever task she was working on.

"Well…his Lordship will be pleased that there will at least be one member of the house that will not be taking any lessons from Matthew…"

O'Brien lifted an eyebrow at this. "You don't want shooting lessons?"

Cora shook her head. "I never cared for it, much…even during the shooting season. Besides, I think I would freeze and panic if one of those things leapt out at me!" she attempted to joke, but O'Brien wasn't smiling.

"I will _never_ let that happen," she vowed once more, looking very serious and stern.

"Oh of course you won't!" Cora quickly amended. She was not trying to imply that O'Brien was lacking in her abilities to protect her. When the attacks first started, O'Brien was the first to demand that someone teach her how to shoot, in order to keep her safe. While Robert had not hidden from her that he wasn't overly fond of O'Brien, he was more than happy to grant this permission, and even told Bates to begin with those lessons right away. Since then, O'Brien followed her very close, whenever she moved around the house. And only when her friend was certain that she was being looked after by another, would she dare to consider leaving the room. Robert had once thought the behavior to be…a bit obsessive. But Cora disagreed. _"Loyal", _had been her words. "No, I never meant to imply—"

"It's alright, milady, I know," the lady's maid assured. "But all the same, I just wanted it to be clear; I will lay my life down for you, to keep you safe."

Cora smiled, touched by the fierce dedication of her friend. No, how could she ever consider another to be her lady's maid?

She turned and looked out the window once again. She saw Mary standing next to Carson, and then watched as the butler went to assist the Downton housekeeper in learning how to take the proper stance when shooting. She looked at Mary and frowned, noticing how her daughter seemed to be looking at Matthew…and how Miss Swire also seemed to be rather fixated with him. She would have to speak to Sir Richard, and remind him to be more attentive to Mary; it wasn't good for her to feel…neglected, in a time like this, when shadows of the past were dancing so closely.

Sybil had been there too, but had gone back inside. Cora continued looking at the various servants who had gathered outside, noticing that the only men present were Matthew and Carson. Where was William? Or Thomas? Or Branson?

…And where was Edith?

She knew that Robert was in his library, along with Dr. Clarkson, and as she imagined, perhaps Sir Richard, too? But would Edith be there as well?

"O'Brien? She turned to her friend. "Have you seen Lady Edith today?"

The lady's maid frowned. "Can't say that I have, milady, but I must confess, I haven't been looking—"

"Would you please go and find her? I'm sure she's with his Lordship in the library, but…just in case—"

O'Brien nodded her head. "I'll go and speak with Mr. Carson; he may know of her whereabouts."

Cora smiled and thanked her once again, as O'Brien quietly shut the door behind her, yet a strange, unsettling feeling came upon her, one that left her cold and…uncomfortable.

Yes, she abhorred violence, and the thought of having to use a gun to face one of those creatures frightened her greatly. Yet she knew, without a doubt, that if it came to saving one of her babies, she would slaughter an entire horde of Walkers.


	23. Secrets

_Sorry for the delay with this update! I had a bit of writer's block, then had to get some motivation going to sit and write, and then the chapter ended up becoming much longer than I had planned, so I had to split a few things up...it's still pretty long, but it's building up to a big revelation, which you'll begin to see forming in this chapter. Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this update! Thank you again for reading and taking the time to leave a review, and a big thanks to all the new followers to this story!_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Three_

"**Secrets"**

It seemed that Matthew was to be forever doomed to face his most awkward moments at Downton Abbey. He remembered very well, his first meeting with Mary, how he had spoken his suspicions that Robert would thrust one of his daughters upon him, only to turn around and see Mary standing there in the corridor, clearly having heard every word. He remembered the fights the two of them had, how she had even gone so far as to refer that he was the sea monster in story of Perseus. And of course…he would never forget the awkwardness of when he finally did confess his feelings for her…and the two of them had kissed and everything seemed to be going as he had hoped…only to learn a short time later, that no…she would not marry him. Or rather, she was only interested in him so long as he was to be the future earl of Grantham.

Upon returning to Downton after all this time, and meeting Sir Richard Carlisle, Matthew wasn't sure what to think about Mary. Yes, it was quite obvious that he still cared for her, but it was also quite obvious that things were different between the two of them. They hadn't gone back to how they had been when they first met, but they certainly had not gone back to how they had been when they became friends (even before he had made known to her his feelings). They were trapped in this…odd place, it seemed. And she was engaged to another man. A man whom Matthew did not like, not one bit, but he simply told himself that was because of whom he was engaged to and no other reason. At least…that was what he wanted to believe. He did not want to believe that Mary was shackled to a man unworthy of her…

But once again, things were different, and very, very awkward. Now, someone from Matthew's past, who had no connection whatsoever to the Crawley family or Downton Abbey was here; someone whom Matthew had formed a bond with, at least that was how it felt to him. Granted, he hadn't known Miss Swire for very long, but…in that short period of when she and her father had taken him and helped him in preparing for his return to Downton, he had felt a closeness; and he couldn't deny, a part of him was glad to have someone from outside the Crawley's circle there, with him.

…Of course, he knew he would never forget the awkward moment when both Lavinia and Mary walked into the breakfast room, caught his eyes, and then looked to the vacant chair that was next to him. He swallowed as he gazed back at them, feeling rather nervous for some reason, especially when the two women looked at each other, and then back at him. No smile of any sort was there to greet him that day. The only person who seemed to be smiling at all was Sir Richard…and he actually rose and walked around the table from where he was sitting, pulling out the empty chair next to Matthew, and murmured, "Miss Swire?"

And so had begun his day. Breakfast was a quiet affair, even more so than normal. And even though she had been one of the last to arrive, Mary was the first to leave, rising from her chair and without a glance or word, turned her back and left the room. It seemed that the "cold aristocrat" whom he had met when first arriving at Downton, was back. And once again, in her eyes, he was the sea monster.

Now more than ever, he longed to take his frustrations out by shooting at some targets. He made his announcement when breakfast was finished to anyone gathered there that he would be in the yard, near the garage, setting up some targets and prepared to offer shooting lessons to anyone who wished them. Robert, who was sitting there at the head of the table and forcing himself to chew down his porridge made no sound, but it was clear he wasn't pleased…and Matthew doubted it was just because of the porridge. Sir Richard made some comment about, "I already know how to use a gun," before continuing with his own breakfast. Edith was quiet; Matthew thought perhaps she would be like Sybil and eager to leap at the chance, but she said nothing, simply continued to stir her porridge with her spoon. Sybil wasn't there; she had left the room before Mary and Lavinia had arrived, saying she needed to and check on her patients. Matthew smiled as he watched her leave, but quickly glanced at Robert, wondering if his cousin suspected…anything. If he did, he certainly never showed it. So Lavinia was the only one left at the table (Cora was in her room and Cousin Violet remained silent in that chair of hers by the window) who turned and looked at him and said, "I would like to learn how to shoot."

And so here he was, setting up and re-setting up targets on the lawn, grateful to have a few more pupils, all of whom were staff, with the exception of Lavinia. Mrs. Hughes was most eager, it seemed, and even though Carson was standing off to the side, sending unending glares of disapproval, he didn't try to stop him when he tried to show Mrs. Hughes how to handle the rifle. However, Matthew knew better to argue with the Downton butler, when he more or less butted in, grumbling about how Mrs. Hughes' stance and the way she held the gun was completely off, and taking over as instructor, at least for the brief moment with the Downton housekeeper. Matthew heard a snicker of laughter and glanced over at Mrs. Patmore, who was trying very desperately not to throw her head back and roar. His eyes then moved beyond the cook…to the tall, ivory-skinned queen of Downton Abbey, who stood with chin up and her eyes fixed and her stare cold…and locked, with his own.

God help him…he still loved her.

But she was not his. She never had been.

"Matthew?"

He glanced down then to Lavinia, who was looking up at him with some concern. She glanced to where he had been looking, and he noticed how her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink, before quickly turning her head away and staring ahead at the targets that Mrs. Hughes was now shooting at, thanks to Carson's help.

"I think I would like to try again," Lavinia mumbled, holding her hand out for the rifle when the housekeeper had finished.

Matthew swallowed as Mrs. Hughes handed Lavinia the gun. "Would you like me to—?"

"No," Lavinia answered, silencing him suddenly. "I can manage on my own, thank you."

_Oh God…_

Matthew briefly closed his eyes, doing his best to stifle a groan. A man would have to be incredibly thick, not to catch the irritation in her voice…and know that it was directed at himself.

As soon as she had possession of the gun, Lavinia easily lifted it, just as he had taught her, made her stance, and fired.

"Blimey!" Mrs. Patmore gasped, staring at the second pickle jar that now lay smashed to pieces on the ground next to the one Mrs. Hughes had managed to hit (thanks to Carson's help). "I must say, I feel far safer in this place already!"

Matthew tried to smile, but he was too busy looking at Lavinia, watching her profile, trying to decipher what she was thinking—and whether he should say anything. Instead, Lavinia turned to the cook and gave her a kind smile and held the rifle out to her. "Why don't you try? It's really not that difficult," she encouraged.

Carson made a sound of disapproval, while Mrs. Patmore stared at Lavinia with a blank expression, her face paling as she looked at the gun being offered to her. Matthew looked just past the cook to where Mary had been standing…only to see that she had disappeared, once again.

The morning continued in that manner. Carson retreated several paces away, but never went back inside. He seemed to be content in standing and observing and muttering various words under his breath, often in disapproval it seemed, but every so often, Matthew swore he heard the butler mutter, "excellent shot!" and nine times out of ten, he would mutter these words when Mrs. Hughes had the gun.

Lavinia quickly became the instructor. She had a much sweeter temperament, and even though she barely knew the people there, she was quickly becoming a favorite amongst both the housekeeper and the cook. Or perhaps it was feminine bonding? Anna soon joined them, and with her came Ethel. Even Miss O'Brien came outside; however she only came to ask Carson a question. When he turned to ask if she would like him to show her how to use the rifle, she sneered at him and muttered, "I know how to defend my lady, sir," before turning on her heel and returning to the house.

Eventually, Matthew found himself stepping back and watching as both Lavinia and Anna, and even Carson to a point, began taking control and helping Ethel, Mrs. Patmore, and Mrs. Hughes approve on their lessons. He forced a smile, glad to see that the servants had taken the time for training seriously, but it disappointed him that none of the other members of the Crawley family had joined them.

And where was Tom? Or William and Thomas, for that matter? Of all the people he expected to see there, showing support and trying to help, where were they?

Realizing that they didn't really need him any longer, or at least not for the moment, Matthew decided to go and inspect the garage. Would he find his friend in there? Perhaps Tom was still upstairs in bed? He had suffered a concussion, according to what Sybil had told him the previous evening (which absolutely mortified Lavinia). And William didn't seem like himself; Matthew remembered seeing William and Thomas emerge from constable's office, learning that Thomas had gotten lost in some tunnel that connected the office to the hospital. William didn't say much, he simply nodded his head to Thomas' words and then proceeded to help Sybil with carrying Tom up to his room, once they had gotten back. The lad did look like he was going to be sick…perhaps he was ill? That could explain his absence. Or…had something happened that he wasn't aware of?

As he approached the garage, he heard the sound of something clanging…and quickened his pace to see what it was_. Please, not a Walker on the grounds_, he prayed…but it turned out not to be anything of the sort (thank heaven) but the very person he had been hoping to find, who was leaning over the open bonnet of the Rolls-Royce.

"So…" Matthew finally spoke, not wanting to startle his friend and cause him to bang his already injured head against the bonnet lid. "…You've been here all day?"

Tom turned his head and looked up at Matthew, a little surprised, but at the same time, giving a small, sheepish grin. "Not exactly," he admitted. "I um…I went searching, actually."

Matthew's brow furrowed. "Searching?"

"For Kieran," Tom explained. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I just…I thought it best to try and do what I could in the early light—"

"No, no, it's…it's alright," Matthew murmured, feeling bad for Tom. The only reason the Irishman had stayed was because he was hoping to find his missing brother, but it seemed that all these changes, from training the household in defending themselves, to making emergency runs into the village for supplies, were occupying Tom's time in doing just that. "No need to explain, of course," Matthew smiled. "I'm just glad to see you up and about and walking again!" he laughed.

Tom shared in the laugh, wiping his hands on an oily rag, before closing the bonnet lid. "So…how are they doing?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction to where Lavinia and the others were practicing.

"Better than I thought, to be honest," Matthew sighed, his eyes lingering just a little on Lavinia. "Lavin—Miss Swire," he corrected. "She's very good, and of course Anna is an excellent shot…and despite his misgivings, Carson is very good as well. And with enough time and training, I do think everyone will not only be much improved, but…ready for anything, perhaps."

Tom nodded in approval at this…but Matthew could tell that…something wasn't right. His friend seemed to be troubled with something. _Is it his brother?_ Perhaps one of the reasons Matthew had found a friend in Tom Branson was because both of them were looking for someone, a family member whom they deeply cared about…but who they had no idea what had become of them. Did his mother really go to York, as Dr. Clarkson had assumed? Had she made it there? And if so…was she _still_ there? Perhaps he should be like Tom? Take the car and drive to York to see for himself—

"There's something you should know…"

Matthew's brow furrowed as he focused on his friend. Tom looked…uneasy. And he was glancing over Matthew's shoulder to make sure no one else was nearby to hear.

"I…" he began and paused, looking down at his feet, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and letting out a what could only be described as a weary sigh. "I…" Tom lifted his eyes to meet Matthew's, but he still seemed to be struggling.

"Tom, surely it's not that bad, is it?" Matthew tried to joke, hoping that humor would help this situation, but that didn't seem very likely. "Well…come on, just say what's on your mind," he encouraged. "You're not the sort of man who holds anything back—"

"I'm leaving."

Matthew hadn't expected that.

He stared at the Irishman with wide eyes full of shock and dismay. "W-w-what?" he stammered.

Tom groaned and ran his hand along the back of his neck. "I'm leaving…" he repeated.

_"Now?"_ Matthew gasped.

"No, not _now_—but soon," Tom clarified, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

Matthew didn't know what to say. He wanted to protest, to urge Tom not to go; in the short time he had gotten to know the Irishman, Matthew felt he had not only found a good friend but in some respects, a brother. They may have very different backgrounds, and who knows what they would have made of each other if the world weren't the way it was now, yet…Matthew couldn't help but believe that even if he were standing before the Irishman as the Earl of Grantham, and Tom really, truly was serving as Downton's chauffeur…he liked to believe that they would still, somehow, manage to be friends. And Tom was also the only other person here who seemed to understand him, and understand the urgency in changing things. If Tom left…then his greatest ally and closest friend would also be leaving.

But at the same time, Matthew knew it was wrong of him to argue that Tom stay. After all, Tom had no allegiance to Downton, no connection other than the fact that they were offering him shelter, out of thanks for saving Sybil. "How…how soon will you go?"

Tom sighed and gave a small shrug. "A day? Perhaps two? Certainly no more than a week; I'm not sure, but…soon."

Matthew ran his hand over his face and through his hair, taking in the information Tom had given him. That was soon! Much sooner than he thought.

"I mean, you seem to have everything under control now—"

Matthew couldn't help but find that laughable. Everything under control? Robert was begrudgingly allowing the staff to take shooting lessons, but Matthew was a long way from convincing Robert to accept and embrace other changes. And it didn't help that Sir Richard Carlisle was poisoning Robert's ear on one end, while Mary stood at the other, ready to agree with her father on anything and everything—so long as it went against his own thoughts and opinions, it seemed.

"It's just…Kieran—"

"You don't need to explain yourself," Matthew murmured, before finding himself collapsing on a nearby work bench. "In some ways, Tom…I…I envy you."

Tom's brow furrowed. "Envy me?"

Matthew nodded. "There's a part of me that very desperately wants to leave this place and go in search of my mother…"

Tom nodded, understanding Matthew's feelings. "And the other part?"

Matthew sighed. "I…I can't leave them, at least not yet. And even if I did, it would be temporary."

Tom's brow was still furrowed. "If you don't mind me saying, you seem rather miserable here."

Matthew couldn't help but laugh at Tom's words. "Miserable? I…I don't know if I would say…" he paused and thought about it. "I'm frustrated…but not miserable."

Tom seemed to smile at little at this and gave a small nod of his head in understanding. "Aye, I can understand frustration very well…" he murmured, before giving a strong nudge with his foot to the tool box on the ground. "...In fact, I can't deny, that part of the reason I volunteered to go back and find you, was because Sir Richard had said something about a 'madman' attacking him in the hospital."

Matthew frowned. "A madman?"

Tom nodded. "Said that a madman attacked him and Lady Mary while they were in the supply room. And…I can't deny, even though he was unable to give any details on how the man looked or anything like that…I was convinced it had to be Kieran."

Matthew's frown only deepened. He hadn't heard any such story, not even when he, Anna, and Dr. Clarkson managed to find Mary and Sir Richard.

"It was probably just a Walker," Tom dismissed. "Or Sir Richard was mistaken entirely; if my brother had been there, I would have found him, I know it."

Matthew was still troubled by this news about some madman in the hospital. Mainly because Sir Richard had kept the news from him, and it would have been news to have, since he had volunteered to stay behind and look for Thomas.

What else was Sir Richard hiding?

"Anyway, I just…I need to find my brother; I've spent so much time here, and…and it's time that I go."

Matthew looked up and met Tom's eyes, and gave a small, reluctant, but understanding nod. "Of course…" he whispered. "And God speed to you."

Tom smiled at that and murmured his thanks. A silence fell between them for a moment.

"There's something else," he added, and Matthew met his eyes, he saw humor in them. "I um…I actually gave Lady Edith some driving lessons this morning."

Matthew sat up at this news. "Driving lessons? To…to Edith?"

Tom laughed but nodded. "That I did; she's not bad, actually—I mean, by no means would I put her out on an open road all by herself, but…she's a faster learner, and she clearly knows a thing or two already about cars. Can't deny, I was impressed," he chuckled, his voice reflecting what sounded like a mixture of amusement but also admiration.

"So…this morning, you were actually giving Edith driving lessons?"

Tom couldn't help but laugh at the expression Matthew was wearing. "Aye, and I'm telling you all this so you can take over for me when I go."

"Take over—wait, Tom, you realize you're leaving me with an even bigger burden now," Matthew tried to reason. "I mean, not only do I need to help and make sure everyone is prepared to shoot and fight should Walkers attack, but now I have to give my cousin _driving lessons_ as well?"

Tom was still chuckling. "It'll be good to have another person who can drive; she can take my place after I leave."

Granted, Matthew hadn't spent an entire morning in Edith's company while she sat behind a steering wheel, but the thought of Sir Richard and Edith as the only other two drivers at Downton, besides himself, did not fill him with great confidence. In truth, it unnerved him and was beginning to make him think twice about putting off his own quest to find his mother in York.

"Are you going to say anything to anyone else?" Matthew asked, watching as Tom retrieved the toolbox he had kicked and was lifting it onto a nearby table.

Tom snorted at the question. "I don't think they'll miss me; if I say something they'll probably begin counting the seconds."

"Not everyone…"

"Present company excluded," Tom chuckled.

Matthew smiled at that but shook his head. "I think my youngest cousin will be most put out, should she wake up one morning and find that you've gone…"

Tom stiffened then, and Matthew had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. In fact, it was rather amusing to see the Irishman, who had no qualm in giving his opinions and speaking his mind…to suddenly be rendered speechless.

"…Lady Sybil," Tom swallowed, avoiding Matthew's eyes. "Lady Sybil is a very…well, she's very nice."

"Nice?" Matthew chuckled. "Yes…I suppose she is. Very clever and kind…not to mention pretty—"

Tom was shooting Matthew a look of warning, a look that only made Matthew want to laugh even harder, however Matthew immediately leapt to his feet…as Lavinia suddenly appeared around the corner.

"Oh! Gracious, I wonder where you had gone," she said, her eyes meeting Matthew's.

"Sorry, I—" he suddenly found himself feeling a little flummoxed. After the cold shoulder she had given him during training, he was a little surprised to realize that Lavinia had in fact been looking for him. "I'm sorry, are they…are you…" he coughed and made an effort to sound as if he was clearing his throat. One glance out of the corner of his eye and he could see that now Tom was the amused one. "…Is someone asking for me?"

Lavinia shook her head. "No, but…Mrs. Patmore said we should take a break and have some lunch, and Carson was ready to agree with her, so…I thought I'd see if you were still out here, before going in."

"Some lunch, hmm?" Tom murmured, folding his hands behind his back. "Well…I must say, I am rather starved; especially since I had no breakfast this morning and just some broth from the night before…think I'll um…go in…" he turned then, his eyes filled with mirth as he passed Matthew.

However it was Lavinia who called out to Tom before he had disappeared. "Mr. Branson, I am so sorry about what happened yesterday—"

"It's alright," Tom reassured. "Thankfully, I have a thick skull," he teased at his own expense. He left them then and now Matthew found himself standing and feeling a little awkward, there, with Lavinia and nobody else.

"Well…" he coughed. "Shall we go in as well? I should warn you that the lunch won't be a great deal different than breakfast—"

"I spent several days on my own, eating scraps that I had managed to pack, as well as various berries that I could find in the forest; whatever Mrs. Patmore has made will seem like a king's feast when compared to that."

Matthew's face flooded with color at her words, and he suddenly felt unworthy to be standing next to her. Lavinia had been through a great deal; her father was dead, and she had somehow managed to travel entirely on her own to Yorkshire, with no idea on where she was going or what she was looking for—other than himself—and she had done all this with the bare minimum of supplies. She as the true survivor, not he.

"Well…yes, um…well, let's not waste another moment—"

"Why didn't you say you were the heir to the Earl of Grantham?"

Matthew groaned and closed his eyes. He wondered when this conversation would happen. "I…there didn't seem to be any point," he muttered. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

She lifted a brow at this. "If it _didn't_ matter, then you would have said something, you would have told my father and I about the place you were going and why, when you told me about you being 'summoned' to go there in 1912. But instead…you chose to keep it a secret."

She had him there. And he didn't really have any reasonable excuse. "I…Lavinia, I…I didn't know…" What could he say? At the time, he wasn't sure if he trusted her and Reggie, however looking back, he realized how foolish that all seemed. Would they try to hold him for ransom? Demand that the present Earl of Grantham pay them a handsome sum if they ever wanted to see him again? Of course not. Perhaps…perhaps he was afraid they wouldn't believe him? And why should they? If some stranger had been wandering around the streets of London, looking haggard and delirious as he had, and then claiming he was the heir to Downton Abbey…they would think him mad!

They were legitimate excuses to be sure…at least in the beginning. But what was the excuse for not explaining himself and telling them the truth, after he got to know them and come to see them as friends?

"I'm sorry…"

Her words brought him out of his thoughts and he looked at her in surprise. "What?"

She was shaking her head and running a hand across her brow, just as he had done earlier when he was feeling frustrated. "I…I'm sorry," she repeated with a sigh. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, I just…" she turned her eyes to the house. "I was just…so surprised when you brought me here, and…and I'm still in shock! I just…it's unbelievable, really, that…that this place stands while the rest of the world has fallen to pieces, and…and despite the changes happening everywhere, it's as if this Downton has been frozen in some sort of…"

"Coma," he murmured.

Now it was her turn to look at him with surprise. "I…Matthew, I didn't—"

"It's alright," he whispered. "And…and you have a right to be upset. I should have said something, or at least given you fair warning before coming here."

A moment of silence passed between them, as if they were unsure on what to say next. The sun overhead continued to shine as if it were just another day; nothing out of the ordinary.

"I don't belong here…"

He stared at her with wide, incredulous eyes. "What? Don't be absurd, of course you do!"

"Matthew—"

"Has someone made you feel unwelcome?" he asked, stepping closer to her, his brow furrowing and his eyes darkening at the thought. "Because if they have, they are wrong," he practically snarled.

She lifted a brow at this. "Are they?"

His eyes widened even further. "Of course! How…?" he stared at her in shock for uttering those two little words. "Why would you even think that?" He reached for her hand then and enfolded it in both of his. "Lavinia…this will be your home now; just as you and your father took me in and cared for me, so shall we take care of you."

"Matthew…" she tried to tug her hand away but he refused to let it go. "Matthew, I'm not asking for charity—"

"Charity?" he interrupted. "This isn't about 'charity'," he spat the word, feeling rather disgusted that she had used it. "Nor is it about feeling indebted, so stop that thought before you speak it," he grunted. "No…this…this is about community," he squeezed her hand and held her gaze, his voice soft but clear. "We are a community now, those of us who are here, those of us who have survived. That's what's been created here at Downton, and that is what we will be; a community of survivors who will look out for one another and continue surviving. And anyone who is in need, anyone who is seeking refuge, will find that here. This isn't about charity, Lavinia, this is about human decency!"

She stared up at him, her eyes growing wider and wider as his voice rose with passion. She swallowed and then gave a small nod of her head, before squeezing his hand back. He released her then, but she didn't step away from him, which did make him glad. But at the same time, he wasn't sure whether she agreed or believed in what had said. The truth was, he wasn't sure how he would handle the announcement of another close friend leaving. Both Tom and Lavinia were outsiders to Downton; they had seen the world and what it had become far beyond Downton's grounds and property. They knew the lengths which the destruction had gone, and they understood the urgency in survival.

But what he had said was true as well, that Downton was, in many ways, trapped in some sort of coma-like state. It was just beginning to wake up, but by no means was it or its people prepared; rather like himself, when he wandered out of that hospital.

He needed Lavinia; he needed her help and her understanding, especially if he was going to be losing Tom in a few days. If sanity had a face…it would be hers. And he needed as much sanity as he could muster, in such a chaotic world.

* * *

Sybil let out a sigh as she came out of Bates' room; he was doing much better and was once again getting some sleep. She was happy that one of her patients was healing nicely…but she knew she would be even happier if she knew to the whereabouts of another.

She was walking down the corridor and was about to turn a corner when she caught sight of…her sister?

"Edith?" she hissed.

Edith froze and turned to Sybil's voice, looking rather startled. Sybil realized then that her sister had been coming up the servant's staircase…and that she was also holding her shoes in her hand! As if…she was trying to not make a sound…

"What…" Sybil's eyes were focused on the shoes, which Edith quickly hid behind her back. Sybil lifted her eyes to Edith, the confusion still there. "Where…where have you been all morning?"

Edith seemed a little surprised by the question. "What…what do you mean?" she stammered.

"The last time I saw you was at breakfast…but…but then I haven't seen you around since. And Mama was asking for you, or so O'Brien told me when I passed her. I think she wants you to go to her…" her words began to slow as she took in the sight of her sister. Edith looked different, not only in the sense that she was clearly sneaking around, but…her hair seemed tousled, or at the very least, wind-blown. And there was a color to her cheeks as well, as if she had just out for a long walk, or something. "Have you been outside?"

"What?" Edith gasped, turning her head frantically to see if anyone else was nearby. "No! Of course not, why…I mean, what makes you think that?"

Sybil gave her sister a stern look. Edith was never very good at lying, at least not to her. "I didn't see you earlier; Matthew was teaching the others how to shoot, and…and I thought you would be out there…based on what you told me—good grief, what are you looking for?"

Edith kept glancing around, as if expecting to see Ethel or Anna or Mrs. Hughes, or even Mary, to suddenly appear. And even though she hadn't revealed anything, it was quite clear she did not want to be caught.

Sybil let out a gasp, as Edith suddenly grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her into the nearest room, before shutting the door and pressing her ear to it, as if to make sure no one was directly outside and could hear them.

"Edith, what in the world—"

"I can trust you, Sybil, can't I?"

Sybil's eyes widened at this. "Of course!" she was surprised by the question. She refused to take sides in her sisters silly arguments, and quite often found herself playing the role of peacemaker (or trying to play that role) whenever they started on one another. But by that same token, she tried to also make herself available for their confidence, should they ever require it of her. And she had never given away any secret that either of them had murmured in her ears over the past few years…even when she found herself questioning whether or not she should break that confidence. She still recalled how Mary had told her, long ago, that she didn't love Patrick, and the thought of marrying him left a sickening feeling in her stomach. By that same token, Edith had poured her heart out to her the night after they had learned about Patrick's death, telling her how deeply she had loved him and would be willing to even go so far as to sell her soul, if it meant bringing him back.

Edith gave her a small smile, and then took Sybil's hands in her own and led her away from the door, until they were both sitting down on a nearby bed. "Sybil…you mustn't say a word of this to anyone, especially Mama and Papa—"

"Edith I already said you could trust me!" However it worried her to hear her sister talk so. In the past, when Edith had a secret to share, the only person she was truly concerned about not knowing was Mary. But this was different…and she wasn't entirely sure it was wise to leave their parents in the dark. Still, Sybil had kept her own secrets from her family…including her recent adventure with Branson to the petrol station. She was hardly one to sit in judgment. "Please…just…tell me whatever it is you're thinking," she paused and looked at the shoes that Edith had dropped nearby. "I'm assuming this has to do with your most recent whereabouts?"

Edith actually gave a little giggle, and the look on her face reflected that of someone who knew they had been up to something naughty, but was rather proud of themselves. "I…" she lowered her voice and leaned in closer. "I was just with Branson—"

"WHAT?" Sybil practically screeched in surprise, her face going pale at the words she had just heard.

"Ssshh!" Edith hissed, her mischievous smile now replaced with a frown. "Keep your voice down."

"What…what do you mean you were 'just with Branson'?" _Stay calm, don't jump to conclusions._

Her sister was giving her an odd look. "This morning…I went to his room—"

"YOU WHAT?"

"Sybil!" Edith shushed. "If you keep raising your voice and interrupting, I'm going to have to—"

"What do you mean you went to his room?"

Edith was giving her a mad look. "Oh please, don't tell me it's improper; when I know you went up to his room the other night to check on him!"

"I…" Sybil could feel heat flood her cheeks. "I…I'm a nurse, Edith, I was simply checking on him—"

"Well it wasn't like that, so stop jumping to conclusions! Honestly!" Edith rolled her eyes and Sybil suddenly felt rather foolish. _I told you not to jump to conclusions_, her mind chastised. "Gracious, Sybil, I…" her sister began laughing then and shaking her head at her. "I can't believe you thought—oh Sybil, he's _the chauffeur!"_

Sybil frowned at her sister's sudden snobbery. "He's _a person_, Edith; and it's best to remember that, especially in the world in which we live now," she muttered. "Now…what is this secret of yours?" _And how does it involve Branson?_

Edith seemed to have gotten over her momentary sulk for Sybil's chastisement, and leaned in close once again, looking rather eager to be sharing this news. "I asked Branson to give me driving lessons!"

Sybil's eyes widened in surprise. Driving lessons? "This was why you went to his room this morning?"

Edith grinned and nodded her head. "Yes, and that's where I've been all morning."

Sybil couldn't believe it. Branson had been…had been teaching her sister _how to drive?_

_He wasn't anywhere in the house or on the grounds…and I had no idea where Edith was, either._ And now she knew; apparently he had been teaching Edith how to drive…something she had never even thought to ask. And God help her, she couldn't deny…she suddenly felt very jealous.

Some could simply equate that the reason she felt any sort of connection to Tom Branson was because he had saved her life that night, so many weeks and days ago. That she "hero worshipped" him, hence why she longed for him to teach her things like shooting and defense, as well as she felt indebted to him, hence why she felt the need to nurse him back to health after his most recent injury. Of course all of those thoughts and theories were wrong. She didn't feel indebted to him, she didn't "hero worship" him, and she certainly didn't believe that any sense of connection could be explained away because he had saved her. No…her connection to Tom Branson ran much deeper than that. She wasn't quite sure how to explain it, but the truth was, Tom Branson had become rather dear to her, and their…friendship (she liked to think that what they had was friendship)…felt very special…because it was uniquely theirs.

And Edith telling her that Branson was teaching her how to drive…well, in all honesty, it felt as if that special friendship was being taken away…and as horrible and petty as it sounded, she was more or less being "forced" to share Branson with another member of her family. Another _female_ member. And despite what Mary said or what Edith believed, Sybil knew that Edith was very pretty…

"Well?" Edith suddenly interrupted her thoughts.

"What?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "I just told you that Branson is teaching me how to drive! And…you haven't said a word since!"

Edith looked so proud; so proud that she had more or less "taken the bull by the horns", and rebelled against the family in her own way, but asking Branson to teach her how to drive. But her sister also looked desperate for some sort of recognition…and clearly had sought out Sybil because she knew she would be the only other person who would applaud her for her efforts, as well as support her in doing them.

And she was clever enough to think about asking him for his help, when it never even dawned on me…

"I'm surprised, but…but well done!" she complimented, hoping she sounded convincing, while desperately trying to force her feelings of jealousy aside, at least for the moment. She knew she was being silly, but…still, she couldn't seem to stop herself. "So…how…how was it?"

Edith smiled, a wistful look appearing on her face. "I…I think I did very well…and I think I impressed him too!" she added with a giggle.

Sybil felt her stomach sink at those words, but once again, told her mind to stop it and pushed them aside. "Oh?"

Edith nodded. "In some ways I'm surprised I remembered what Sir Anthony had told me…" her smile faded slightly, and she quickly looked away. As for Sybil, that feeling in her stomach worsened, but now because she felt absolutely horrible for the jealous assumptions she had made. _Sir Anthony, of course,_ she realized. Sir Anthony Strallan truly had, it seemed, captured her sister's heart, and it was cruel of both her and Mary to assume that the only reason Edith cared for the gentleman was because he had complimented her and shown her some favor, in the past.

"Well…" she tried to keep Edith's spirits up. "It is good, and clearly came in very handy!" she said with a smile and a squeeze of her sister's hands. "And it will be good to have another driver around."

Edith seemed to smile once again at this. "Exactly! That's what I thought—but again, don't tell Mama or Papa."

Sybil nodded, but she was still conflicted by that request. "I won't, but…Edith, now that Papa is allowing us to learn how to shoot and defend ourselves, I'm sure if we explain to him the importance of you taking driving lessons—"

"Oh Sybil," Edith groaned, rising from the bed and rolling her eyes, again. "You of all people know how stubborn Papa can be, and how he will fight tooth and nail against any sort of change, if he can help it. This would be far too much—he would never allow it!"

_You know she's right; you know it's true. Papa can be most stubborn about these things_. Yet she also knew that no good would come of such deceit. Even though their father disapproved of her insistence that they learn how to shoot, she had told him that she wanted to learn. Edith, nor anyone else, as far as she knew, had ever indicated to their father the desire to learn how to drive. He would be furious if he found out that Edith had been carrying on—and she wouldn't be the only one that would suffer.

"Edith, you should tell them, at least for Branson's sake—"

"Oh Sybil, don't be absurd!" her sister groaned.

"I'm not!" Sybil defended. "But when Papa finds out—"

"He's not going to find out, not so long as you keep quiet about it!"

Sybil eyed her sister suspiciously then. "Why…are you so adamant about this?" Before Edith could answer, she asked the next question that had leapt to her mind. "Why the sudden eagerness to learn how to drive at all?"

It was Edith's turn to turn pale. "I…" she didn't seem to have an answer ready just then…or an answer she was willing to share. "I just think it would be a good idea! You said so yourself, it would be good to have another driver—"

"Exactly, _I_ said so, but why do _you_ want to learn? I mean, I know you were fond of driving with Sir Anthony, but where did this sudden desire come from? _Is it_ because of Sir Anthony? Please, Edith, tell me the truth—"

"I am telling you the truth!" Edith groaned, turning her back on Sybil and marching over to the door they had just come through. She looked ready to leave, but she paused, and then looked over her shoulder, catching Sybil's eyes and giving her a nasty glare. "Why is that no one trusts me? That everyone doubts me?"

Sybil suddenly rose herself, staring at Edith in shock. "Doubts you? What on earth do you—"

"I expected more from you," Edith snapped. "I thought you of all people would understand."

"I'm trying to!" Sybil protested. "I want to understand, but you're not telling me everything—"

"I don't need to tell you everything, because I already have!" Edith all but shouted. "And if ANY of you ever listened to me, you would KNOW that!"

Both Sybil, and the pictures that hung on the walls, were still trembling, long after Edith walked out and slammed the door in her wake.

* * *

Sarah groaned as she stepped outside. She had spent a good portion of her morning hunting Lady Edith because her Ladyship had requested it, and checked high and lo, only to discover that apparently Lady Edith had been in her room this entire time…the one place (the one obvious place) Sarah hadn't considered looking, until just a few minutes ago, when she went to knock on the woman's door, and heard Lady Edith grumble a harsh, "GO AWAY!" Well…she was not in any mood to put up with a spoiled girl's sulking, so she simply rolled her eyes, murmured something about checking on her Ladyship's behalf, and went to find her Ladyship (who was now in the library with his Lordship) and tell her that all was well, Lady Edith was simply in her room, feeling a little ill. She was quick to reassure her Ladyship that it was nothing serious, and even went so far as to pat the woman's shoulder, when Cora let out a relieved sigh, before thanking her and dismissing her.

Now all she wanted was a smoke. And someone to grumble about her morning to.

She frowned when she stepped outside, realizing that Thomas wasn't there. She hadn't seen him all morning and wondered what he could be up to. At the very least, she assumed he would be with Capt. Crawley (forced to be there) but hadn't seen him when she went to question Mr. Carson about Lady Edith's whereabouts. Good grief, was the day truly going to be like this? Always wondering where someone was and having to go and look for them?

However her wondering ceased, when she heard a tiny sound to her left, and saw the very person she had been hoping to find, catching her eye from some sort hiding spot he had found, behind a bunch of old crates. "What on earth…?"

"Shhh…" he shushed, glancing towards the kitchen door. He made a gesture with his head and Sarah sighed, before moving towards him. _Now what?_

"We're in trouble," Thomas muttered under his breath, the second she had come around the crates.

_We're?_ How were _they_ in trouble?

"I've spent the entire morning in my room, the door opened just a crack…keeping watch on William," he explained. He looked extremely agitated, and Sarah could only assume it was because he didn't have his cigarettes. But a cloud of smoke, no matter how small, would draw attention and that was the last thing Thomas wanted.

"I notice you're not watching his door now," she remarked, to which he gave her a look that told her he was in no mood for any kind of humor. She almost hated to ask, because she had a feeling she knew the answer, but asked she did. "So what happened?"

Thomas began muttering some incoherent curses, before running his hands through his hair. "Told me that if I don't say something to Mr. Branson, he's going to go and tell him, himself!"

Sarah's brows lifted at this. "And what about your threat to him? About keeping his mouth shut or else you'll reveal his secret?"

Thomas muttered again. "Says it doesn't matter; says he doesn't care if I say something to Capt. Crawley—he's giving me to the end of the day to say something or else he's going to reveal the truth."

Sarah folded her arms across her chest. "He could be calling your bluff, you realize…"

"Think I haven't considered that?" Thomas snarled. "William always did like to think of himself as the 'bigger man'," he growled. "Thinks he can scare me with his threats…"

But clearly William had scared Thomas, or at the very least had unnerved him. Sarah tried very hard then not to roll her eyes. Thomas, despite his ruthlessness, was not the brightest match in the box. He was good at thinking up something quick, but not very good at planning long term. He had threatened William earlier, but he hadn't done anything to continue making William feel uneasy or afraid. He certainly hadn't played on William's weaknesses, which included his fear of disappointing those he cared about. And he had let his guard down, allowing William to realize that the two of them were equals in keeping secrets, and Thomas cared more about his secret remaining hidden.

"It would be just like William to be willing to play the martyr," she muttered under her breath.

Thomas nodded his head. "So what do we do?"

She looked at him with eyebrows lifted in question. _"We?"_ she repeated the word.

Thomas groaned. "Oh come on, Miss O'Brien, you're as much a part of this as I am—"

"I most certainly am not!" Sarah hissed. "It wasn't me who chained that Irish hooligan to the wall and left him there to rot," she snarled. _Or to be discovered again…_

Thomas glared. "No, you simply wanted me to go back and kill him!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. This was getting them nowhere, and the important thing was to come up with a solution, before William went and did something stupid, like telling Mr. Branson about his supposed brother, chained to wall in the constable's station down in the village.

"Suppose I could say I didn't know it was him…" Thomas mumbled to himself. "Suppose I could say that I was attacked, and just…just didn't realize…" his words trailed off; he looked helpless and unsure.

Sarah sighed. "What if you beat William to his threat?"

Thomas frowned. "What? What are you—?"

"Let's say William is only trying to get you to call his bluff; he's threatened to reveal everything if you don't say something, and is making various grand gestures, as if he doesn't care about his own reputation," she grumbled. "But…what if he's simply trying to make you worry, as you are, just so you will say something?"

Thomas' frown only deepened. "I don't understand, how does that help me?"

"It helps you because it says that William isn't expecting you to say anything about him, because you'll be too busy trying to save your own skin by telling Mr. Branson what happened. Don't you see? He's counting on you being too occupied to tell your story—from your perspective—about what happened, that you won't have time to reveal the truth about him. And why would Mr. Branson care about William's shameful story for running away from London? He wouldn't…and that is what William is counting on; you to focus entirely on the truth about the other Mr. Branson's whereabouts, as opposed to telling the _whole_ truth."

Thomas stared at her, as little by little, she could see the meaning behind her words sink in. "Beat him at his own game," Thomas murmured.

Sarah smiled. "Exactly; go to Capt. Crawley—tell Capt. Crawley the truth. Better yet, go to his Lordship and reveal everything! You know how fond of Capt. Crawley his Lordship is."

"Indeed," Thomas murmured. "His Lordship would be furious…"

"And they wouldn't know what to believe from William," Sarah continued. "They'd be so disgusted by his deceit, disgusted and disappointed, that they wouldn't know what to believe from him. And then…_then_ you reveal that you were attacked. Make yourself the victim, say it was dark, you didn't see anything—William doesn't know how you know Mr. Branson's brother, does he?"

Thomas shook his head. Sarah was glad to learn this; it meant she was the only other person who knew the truth. Another fatal flaw of Thomas; never reveal the entire truth to anyone, especially someone as devious as yourself.

"It's perfect," Sarah murmured, feeling quite proud of herself for coming up with this plan. "Humiliate William; sour his reputation, spread the seed of doubt in their minds. Then tell them how you encountered that madman whom Sir Richard had mentioned; that will be perfect because then he can support your story, when you say you were attacked by some madman. Reveal that you heard the man speak, and his accent sounded foreign. And it's only today that you wonder…if perhaps the man is Mr. Branson's missing brother."

"And then, if William tries to protest and say otherwise, they'll think he's only doing what he can to save his own skin…" Thomas murmured, a wicked grin beginning to spread across his face. "You're right, Miss O'Brien, this is perfect!"

Sarah couldn't help but smile at this. Yes, indeed, it was the best one could make of such a situation. And knowing William, he was the sort who would fall on his sword, if questioned by either his Lordship or Capt. Crawley about the truth of what happened in London. Once again, using William's weaknesses as a means to save Thomas' hide.

But there was one thing Sarah hadn't contemplated. "What if he's still there, the other Mr. Branson?" she asked. "What if Capt. Crawley finds him still chained down there?

Thomas didn't look worried anymore, which didn't fill Sarah with ease. At least when he was worried, he was cautious.

"He'd be dead by now," Thomas seemed to be grinning. "The Walkers would have gotten to him by now…I purposefully left the door open to that place," he explained, as if that was all the explanation he needed. But Sarah wasn't so easily convinced. However, she was tired with trying to save Thomas' skin, and he should have listened to her in the first place and have done away with the Irishman altogether.

A sound caught Sarah's attention and she whipped her head to the side, her eyes wide and alert. "What was that?" she hissed.

Thomas peered as well, both behind the crates and to the opposite side. Suddenly, a large, fat rat scurried passed, squeaking as it went, carrying what looked like an apple core in its teeth. Sarah groaned and closed her eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. "Just a rat," she muttered, grateful it wasn't a spy.

She and Thomas now began to plot when they would tell his Lordship, and how they could keep William from interrupting. Unbeknownst to them, a few more rats scurried past, each holding some piece of garbage in their mouths. It was much easier for the tiny creatures to fetch, considering that the sack containing the garbage had been dropped on the ground near the rubbish bins, as opposed to going into them. But then what could be expected, when the kitchen maid who had been carrying the garbage, had just stepped outside soon enough to overhear Thomas and Miss O'Brien's plan to destroy William?


	24. Confrontation

_I'm back! Sorry for the long delay, but I think you'll be pleased with this chapter. Lots of action happening, and even more to come! I will update again before or by the weekend, so be on the look out! That's all I'm going to say, I don't want to keep you waiting, so HERE IT IS!_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Four_

"**Confrontation"**

Something about the way the engine had sounded when he had taken Lady Edith for her driving lesson, bothered him. After grabbing a quick bite to eat in the kitchens (and leaving Matthew and Miss Swire to discuss…whatever it was she wanted to discuss), he returned to the garage (grateful to see that he wasn't going to be interrupting the pair—they had clearly moved on inside) and took out the tool box, prepared to tinker a little with the engine and see whatever was causing that strange clunking sound.

However he had no sooner opened the bonnet and was about to begin his search, when a voice spoke up behind him, "I wish _I_ knew how an engine worked…"

Tom lifted his head so quickly, it was inevitable that he would bump it—hard—on the lid of the bonnet. He bit his lip to keep himself from cursing in front of her, but his hand flew to the back of his head, as if somehow the touch his palm would soothe the ache.

Sybil gasped and quickly stepped towards him. "Oh gracious! Are you alright?"

Tom groaned and turned to face her, his breath catching in his throat as he realized she was standing just a few inches, her hands in midair, as if reaching for his head. Of course the gesture appeared somewhat awkward now; having turned to face her, and with her hands up in the air, moving to check the newly acquired lump on his head (to match the one Miss Swire had given him), her body was practically pressed against his…and her hands were practically around and behind his neck…

…And her face…her beautiful face…was mere inches away from his.

Time froze for a moment. And then Sybil quickly lowered her hands and took a few steps back, her eyes darting down to the ground, her hands tangling with the fabric of her apron. If he thought things had been awkward just then, when she had been standing that close, it was nothing compared to the awkwardness he was feeling now.

"I um…" he cleared his throat, trying to keep from squeaking like an adolescent boy. "I um…I could teach you, if you'd like?" He noticed the confusion in her eyes, and he put on a sheepish smile, pointing towards the open bonnet. "About the workings of an engine?" he clarified. "I could teach you…if you would really like to know…" He wasn't sure what else to say about that. Her sudden appearance had taken him completely by surprise. Not that he minded! He hadn't seen Sybil since the other night, when she had come to his room to check on him. And in some ways…he was surprised with how deeply he had missed her. In other ways, he wasn't so surprised…which of course caused the voice of his brother, the one that resided in his head, to criticize him even louder.

She looked up at him when he made his offer about teaching her. And the sweet concern she had shown for him after re-bumping his head, and the pretty blush that had colored her cheeks at their sudden closeness, vanished completely. There was different sort of look on her face, and it was not a friendly one.

"No…" she murmured lifting her nose slightly, a haughty gesture he had seen other female members of her family perform. "No, I wouldn't dare…_that's Edith's territory."_

Tom's eyes widened slightly at her words. Did she…? How had she…?

Well, obviously her sister had said something. Despite what Lady Edith had said to him earlier, he doubted that "no one" in her family cared about her. He had a hard time imagining someone like Lady Sybil not caring for anyone. After all, the amount of time she spent trying to maintain those mass graves…and the story she had told him the other night, about how she had lost her friend…

But this was different. There was something accusatory in her tone, yes, that much was obvious. But…it had nothing to do with the fact that he had "overstepped" his boundaries as a commoner for spending time _alone_ with Lady Edith. Why would Sybil be upset with him for that? After all, _they_ had spent time _alone_ together...which could only mean…

He knew he shouldn't smirk. But he couldn't help it. "Are you jealous?"

Sybil's cold haughtiness suddenly melted to a look of panic. "What?" she gasped, her eyes wide and her cheeks glowing red. Tom had to do everything he could to not burst out laughing. He didn't want her to think he was making fun, but at the same time, he couldn't deny he was amused. Did she miss him like he had missed her?

"I asked if you were…or perhaps…_are_…jealous?" he repeated.

Sybil was sputtering. "Jealous? I…why would…no…no, of course not! I…that's…don't be…that's absolutely absurd!"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"OF COURSE!" she all but shouted in frustration, her left foot stomping as if to emphasize her point.

"Because I mean it, I could teach you if you'd like," he smiled at her, admiring her blush. All she had to do was ask. He'd be more than happy to take her out that very afternoon, show her how to drive…the two of them…alone again…with a car…

He shook his head. Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea.

Sybil glared at him; her hands now going to her hips, a gesture Tom couldn't deny he found rather…arousing. "Why did you give Edith driving lessons?" she asked, in an accusatory tone.

Tom frowned slightly. "Because she had asked me," he answered simply. "Just as you had asked me to teach you how to shoot…Lady Edith asked me to teach her how to drive."

Sybil opened her mouth to say something…and then quickly closed it. She seemed to be at a bit of loss, because she opened her mouth a second time, and closed it once again. "So…so if I had asked you, would…would you have given _me_ driving lessons?"

Tom tried to hide his amusement. While he knew he shouldn't tease, he couldn't deny that he did love seeing her fired up like this. "Well…perhaps…" he murmured, as if giving the thought some careful thinking.

Sybil's eyes widened at his answer. "Perhaps?"

He nodded. "Lady Edith has some experience with cars. She knew a few of the basics, such as the location of the clutch pedal, and how to shift gears…" he sighed for dramatic emphasis. "But I have a feeling that if I were to teach you…it would take a great deal longer…" he watched her as he spoke his next words…and decided to take a few steps towards her. "We would be forced to spend hours upon hours together…" She was looking at him now with widening eyes as he approached. "Who knows?" he paused until he was just in front of her, and lowered his head slightly, as if to whisper a secret into her ear. "You might grow weary of me then," he murmured in a soft voice, a deep chuckle rising in his throat as he watched the blush spread from her cheek down her neck. Oh God, how far did her blush go? He would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't interested in learning the answer.

"I…" Sybil swallowed, staring up at him…her eyes glancing back and forth from his…to his mouth. Tom couldn't deny he was doing the same thing. _God she has the most beautiful lips_, he thought to himself. Full and pink and…aching to be kissed.

What would it be like to kiss a woman like Lady Sybil Crawley?

_Heaven_.

His mind didn't even hesitate at that question. Kissing Sybil Crawley would be the closest thing to experiencing heaven in this world gone to hell.

And here she was, like an angel offering respite from all his troubles, standing before him, her face tilted just slightly. He had held her in his arms before, at the petrol station. If he had found that experience to be heavenly, then what it would it be like to hold her and lose himself in the feel of her lips against his? Oh God…to feel her tongue slide inside his mouth, while his own tasted the sweet secrets of hers…

A different image suddenly sprang to his mind, one that he had been trying for a very long time to suppress ever since he met the youngest Crawley daughter; an image of her with her beautiful brown curls spread out upon a pillow, her body lying beneath his, writhing beneath his, crying out in pleasure as he kissed her, as he loomed over her, as he—

Tom both muttered a curse and thankful prayer as the sound of footsteps on the gravel drive were heard rushing towards the garage.

Both he and Sybil practically leapt away from one another, trying to put as much space between the two of them as possible.

"Hello? Mr. Branson? Are you—oh! Good, you are, I—milady!" Daisy paused at seeing Sybil standing there too. "I…I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's alright," Sybil soothed, putting on a smile, and trying to look calm, as if the intense heat that seemed to have filled the garage when it was just she and him hadn't occurred. "Is something wrong? You look—"

"Where's Capt. Crawley?" Daisy asked, biting her lip and glancing back and forth between the two of them, her eyes filled with worry. The poor girl looked like she was ready cry!

"He's inside having lunch with my family—Daisy, whatever is the matter?" Sybil asked again, her voice filled with genuine concern as she put her hand on the kitchen maid's shoulder. The girl was trembling, but her eyes were focused on Tom. He saw the worry in their depths, and it chilled his heart.

"I…I can't go up there, I'm not supposed to—"

"Then tell us," Tom intervened, stepping forward until he as standing right in front of the petite girl. "What is it, Daisy? What does Capt. Crawley need to know?"

She bit her lip, and then threw a quick glance over at the house, before looking back up at him. "It's…it's about poor William…"

"William?" Sybil asked, concern rising in her voice. "What's wrong? Is he ill?"

Daisy shook her head. "No, but…but they're going to do something awful—they have done something awful!" she wailed.

"_Who_, Daisy, _who_ has done something awful?" _And what have they done, exactly?_

Daisy looked at Tom, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Please…please don't be angry with William…"

Tom was growing more and more frustrated by the fact that he was completely clueless about whatever was bothering the kitchen maid, but he nodded his head and assured her that he wouldn't be angry, just so long as she would get to her point and reveal whatever it was that she was upset about, and how it concerned Matthew.

"I…I overheard Thomas and Miss O'Brien talking…" Daisy began.

_Never a good sign_, Tom thought. He didn't know these people very well, but he knew enough that when those two in particular got together, trouble was sure to follow. "Go on…" he encouraged. "What did you hear?"

Daisy took a deep breath, and then held his gaze as the next few words passed her lips. "I think they know where your brother is."

* * *

"So…I understand that the shooting lessons are progressing nicely?"

Matthew glanced up from his tea cup at Sir Richard, who was sitting and smiling at him like a cat toying with its prey. They were all gathered in the library now, just after their small and brief luncheon. Cousin Violet had resumed her spot by the window, gazing out at the horizon for…who knows what. Carson stood nearby, just as silent. Edith had yet to make an appearance, which was quite agitating to Cora; she kept debating if she should go and check on her, to which both Robert and Mary kept telling her to let Edith be—if she wanted to make an appearance, she would. Matthew found himself glancing at Mary, who sat on the settee near her father, quietly sipping her tea and gazing down at her lap, while her fiancée paced the room, admiring all the books as if he had never seen them before. Matthew couldn't help but frown at this, wondering what the man was up to. Lavinia genuinely was admiring all of the books, something Matthew couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this was her way of…not taking a seat next to Mary. But that was a foolish notion, of course, he told himself. Sybil had left right after eating something (she seemed to be in a bit of hurry) and muttered something about checking on Bates, before leaving. Was his fair cousin truly going to check on her father's valet? Or was there another destination in mind?

"Well?"

Matthew was drawn back to the present by Sir Richard's question. He sighed and forced a smile, although he had little doubt that Sir Richard would know it was not sincere. "They went very well, thank you," Matthew explained. "Mrs. Hughes is learning quickly, and I'm sure with a few more lessons, both Mrs. Patmore and Ethel will have it down."

Sir Richard chuckled at this. "Ah, that is good to hear. I must say, I do feel so much safer, knowing that we are protected by a housemaid, the cook, and the housekeeper."

Mary turned her head slightly and Matthew wondered if the look she was giving Sir Richard was one of disdain. He hoped so.

"You should feel safer," he added, sipping his tea. "That housemaid, cook, and housekeeper may the difference between life and death, if the situation were to arise."

Robert made some sort of sound in his throat, but instead kept his attention focused elsewhere. It seemed that everyone was tense right now, and avoiding the obvious elephant in the room. Robert, despite his agreement, was not happy with the arrangement and did not agree to it or see it as being necessary. Matthew supposed it was because he would then have to admit that the situation was far beyond his control. Mary clearly agreed with her father, and wanted to stand by him, but at the same time he could tell that she was feeling a little torn about the subject as well (or was that just his wishful thinking?) Lavinia and Cora and even Cousin Violet, surprisingly, were keeping out of the whole thing. It seemed that Sir Richard was the only one willing to talk, but it was obvious to whom he was pandering.

"Where's Dr. Clarkson?" Matthew asked, hoping that a change in subject would ease the tension in the room.

"He mentioned something about…spices," Robert answered, sounding a little confused himself, as he repeated the doctor's words. "I'm not sure exactly what he wanted with spices, but he wanted to talk to Mrs. Patmore and find out what spices she kept in the store cupboard."

Matthew's brow furrowed at this news. He opened his mouth to ask another question, however he was stopped short by a loud and quick knock on the library door. Before a word could be uttered (or before Carson had the opportunity to cross the room and open the door himself), Thomas burst inside, surprising everyone.

"Thomas?" Cora murmured, rising from her seat. "What is it? Is everything alright—OH! Is it Lady Edith?" she gasped, rushing over to the former footman's side.

Thomas looked at Cora, clearly surprised and confused by her question. "W-what? I mean, no, your Ladyship, I…" he looked across the room and found Matthew's face. Matthew had also risen to his feet, and like the others, was looking at Thomas with a mixture of concern and confusion. Something must have alarmed him, judging by the way he looked. "I…I actually need to speak with Capt. Crawley," Thomas explained, his eyes then darting over to Robert. "And you too, your Lordship."

Carson was fuming. He marched over to Thomas' side and hissed in the man's ear, loud enough Matthew was sure for Cousin Violet to have heard at her end of the room, "Are you mad? Have you lost your senses completely?"

Thomas ignored the butler and went around him, until he was standing just before Matthew, and now Robert, who had also risen and was standing beside him. "Well…what is it, Thomas, what's wrong?" Robert asked, squaring his shoulders and facing the footman.

Thomas glanced around the room at the others, all of whom were now looking on him with interest. Matthew's frown deepened as he thought…out of the corner of Thomas' lip, he saw…what could only be described as…smirk?

"Well…" Thomas began. "First, I do beg your pardon, your Lordship, for interrupting, but…a matter like this can't wait. And I felt that you," he gestured to both Robert and Matthew, "had a right to know as soon as possible."

"Alright, you've explained yourself," Matthew said, feeling a little irritated, although he wasn't sure why. "Come on, what's this about?"

Thomas glanced then at Carson, who was still glaring at him, but who also looked confused and intrigued by whatever news he had come to share. "It's about William, sir."

"William?" several voices all murmured at once.

"That's right," Thomas continued. "You see," he looked directly at Matthew then. "William's been keeping a secret from you sir."

"A secret?" Robert asked, looking back and forth between Matthew and Thomas. "What do you 'he's been keeping a secret'? What secret? What are you talking about?"

Thomas looked at Matthew again. "It pains me to say this, sir," for some reason Matthew doubted that, because Thomas didn't look pained in the slightest. "But I have learned that William is in fact, guilty of aban—"

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

A gasp went up about the room, and all eyes turned to the door where a furious Irishman stood, his teeth bared and his eyes blazing as he glared across the room at Thomas.

Matthew stared wide-eyed at his friend, who looked ready to…to murder someone! "Tom!" he exclaimed, stepping around Thomas to approach his friend and find out what was the matter, but he didn't have the chance.

A roar of fury erupted from Tom's lungs, before the Irishman launched himself at the former footman, shouting "BASTARD!" as he tackled Thomas to the ground.

A scream went up from several women in the room. Carson stared in horror, and Robert looked at the two men wrestling on the ground, shouting, "GOOD GOD! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

Like Carson, Matthew also stared in horror as he watched Tom grip Thomas by the lapels of his shirt and began shaking him roughly, shouting, "WHERE IS HE? YOU SON OF A BITCH, WHERE IS HE?"

Thomas tried to push Tom off of him, tried to fight back, tried to throw a punch, but Tom as too quick, and punched Thomas himself, before attempting to wrap his hands around the footman's throat.

"Tom, don't!"

Matthew turned his head and caught sight of his cousin, standing in the doorway looking horrified and distraught at the display. Her eyes were widening with terror as Tom began to choke Thomas, the entire time shouting, "WHERE IS HE? TELL ME WHERE HE IS OR I WILL KILL YOU RIGHT NOW!"

"TOM, STOP IT!" Matthew roared, reaching down and attempting to wrap his arms around the Irishman and pull him off. It wasn't easy, because Tom was struggling and fighting against Matthew's grip, while at the same time trying to get an answer from Thomas. "IT'S NO USE, YOU'RE CHOKING HIM!" Matthew shouted, even though he wasn't sure how far basic reasoning would go right now. His friend was beyond livid!

Thankfully Carson stepped in, helping Matthew pry the Irishman away from Thomas, who was coughing and sputtering and gasping for breath. "He's…he's…" he coughed. "He's MAD!"

"LET ME GO!" Tom shouted, struggling against both Matthew and Carson's hold. Meanwhile, Thomas had practically run to hide behind Robert, who was glaring at Tom with a ferocious, if somewhat confused, fire.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" Robert thundered, looking back and forth between the two men. He stared at Tom who was still struggling and still sending murderous looks towards Thomas. "ANSWER ME!"

"Answer his Lordship!" Carson growled, giving Tom a firm shake.

"HE KNOWS WHERE KIERAN IS!" Tom shouted, glaring at all of them, but especially at Thomas.

Matthew stared blankly at his friend and then looked at Thomas, who was vehemently shaking his head, but at the same time was avoiding the eyes of anyone staring. "Your…your brother?" Matthew murmured.

"AYE!" Tom growled. "HE CHAINED HIM UP SOMEWHERE IN THE VILLAGE AND LEFT HIM TO ROT!"

Matthew turned to Thomas, as did several others in the room. Thomas stared at Tom as if he were a wild creature having burst forth from some mysterious jungle. "No!" he shook his head. "No, no, he's mad! I don't know what he's talking about!" Thomas reached forward and actually grabbed hold of Robert's elbow, a gesture that shocked Robert and a few other people. "Didn't you see what he just tried to do? He tried to kill me! HE'S A MADMAN!"

Tom roared and fought against his jailers, but Matthew and Carson held firm. "TOM!" Matthew barked. "Tom, calm down! This isn't going to help you find Kieran! Just…please…calm down!"

He was still struggling, but they began to lessen slightly, especially when Sybil suddenly appeared in front of him, her hands grasping Tom's shoulders, causing several people to gasp. "Listen to Matthew, Tom," Sybil urged, her eyes large, blue, and pleading as she stared back at the Irishman. "We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise you! We'll find him, we will…but you need to try and calm yourself…"

"Sybil…" Robert muttered, reaching forward and putting a hand on his daughter's shoulder, pulling her away from Tom as someone would pull a child away from a dangerous animal. But Sybil's eyes never left Tom's, and it seemed to be doing the trick, because Matthew could feel his friend's struggles coming to a stop…and Tom began to ease his breathing, his eyes now focused on Sybil, rather than the cowering footman who stood behind her and Robert.

"I'm fine," Tom muttered, shaking his shoulders. Matthew let go, believing his friend and trusting him. Carson didn't seem quite so convinced, but after glancing Matthew's way, sighed and reluctantly let go.

"No…" Thomas protested. "No, he's mad! He tried to kill me! He needs to be locked up! He needs to be—"

"We'll deal with Branson later," Robert growled, clearly disgusted by everything that was happening. He turned to Thomas and looked at him suspiciously. "But first, why don't you explain to us what it is you had come to tell us in the first place."

Thomas' face paled. "I…I…" he stammered, and suddenly the self-assurance he seemed to have entered the room with had vanished. Granted, the man had been attacked (and completely taken by surprise) but it seemed that he was…afraid…to even say something.

"Forgive me, your Lordship," Tom growled, his eyes glaring at Thomas and then forcing himself to turn and meet Robert's own glare. "But I have just learned that yesterday, while William and myself were in the village to find both Thomas and Capt. Crawley, Thomas had come across my brother and…and chained him in some jail cell, leaving him to die!" he spat.

Thomas' eyes widened. "No, no, that's not…that's not true! I…he attacked me! I had no choice! He was a madman!"

Tom let out another roar, but Matthew was prepared and grabbed Tom and pulled him away. "Which is it, Barrow!" Matthew snapped, turning and glaring at Thomas while he pushed Tom away from the footman. "You said it's not true, but now you're saying that Tom's brother attacked you; so which is it?"

"I…" Thomas looked at Matthew with wide eyes full of panic. "I…"

"Answer the question," Robert ordered, looking darkly at Thomas. "Did you or did you not encounter Branson's brother in the village yesterday? And if you did, why didn't you say anything?"

"I…I…I didn't know…I mean, I didn't know it was him—"

"LIAR!" Tom barked.

"Pipe down!" Carson growled, looking completely irritated and embarrassed on this whole front.

Thomas looked like a fox, backed into a corner by a group of hunters. His eyes kept glancing around the room, and Matthew was sure it was more because he was trying to find an escape route than a sympathetic face.

The words he spoke next, however, surprised everyone.

"WILLIAM!"

Matthew frowned. William?

"HE ABANDONED YOU IN LONDON, CAPT. CRAWLEY!" Thomas hysterically shouted.

"What?" Mary gasped, speaking for the first time since this entire thing had begun. "What do you mean he abandoned Mat—Capt. Crawley?"

"It's true!" Thomas continued. "He ran away like a coward, leaving Capt. Crawley to die in that hospital!"

Matthew was just as surprised by Thomas' declaration. He quickly began shaking his head. "No…no, don't be absurd!" he practically spat. "William—Pvt. Mason—didn't abandon me, he…he was told that I was going to die, they all thought I was going to die in that hospital—"

"No sir…"

Now all heads turned towards the door, and Matthew's eyes widened as he locked eyes with the very man to whom they had just been talking about.

"Thomas is right," William muttered, looking down at his feet.

"WHAT?" Robert gasped, his face full of confusion and fury, but mainly confusion.

William sighed and took a step into the room. Behind William stood a timid looking girl—Daisy, wasn't it? Yes, the kitchen maid, who according to "protocol" was not meant to be seen anywhere upstairs. _She must have gone to fetch William,_ Matthew realized. Carson was frowning at the sight of her, and she tried to step away, but William was holding her hand, and gave it a squeeze before tugging her into the room with him.

"I abandoned Capt. Crawley at the hospital," William continued, taking a deep breath and holding Matthew's gaze, his head lifted high, but by no means did he look proud. "I…no one knew if you were going to survive, that was true…but…but by no means did any of the doctors or nurses think you were going to die, so long as they kept feeding you and giving you water," he paused and looked down at the ground, before continuing. "When…when the outbreak happened…they told everyone to leave. I…I tried to fight against it, but…but then I started to see what was happening…" he closed his eyes, and Matthew swore he saw tears squeeze out from the sides. "I saw the dead come back to life…" he whispered, shaking his head as if trying to make the memory go away. "And…and I…I panicked. I didn't know what to do, it was chaos, mass chaos, and…and I couldn't find anyone to help me carry your body, so…so I did the only thing I could think of; I pushed you into a room and barricaded the door as best I could and…and ran."

"But…" Robert stepped forward then. "But you said that Matthew was dead. You told us—"

"Yes, your Lordship, I know," William whispered, feeling utterly ashamed. "And then I lied to you all those weeks ago, when Capt. Crawley returned; I lied to you and said I was mistaken, that I had thought he was dead, but the truth is…I _knew_ he was still alive when I left the hospital in London."

"So you _did_ abandon him!" Mary's voice suddenly accused, glaring at William with a fury that Tom had shown just a few minutes ago on Thomas. "You left him defenseless, to die in that hospital, after everything he did for you—"

"He saved my life," Matthew interrupted.

Mary stared at him in shock. "You call this…you call what he did 'saving your life'?"

"No, I don't mean 'this', I mean…in France. During the War. William saved my life."

"And then he left you to die in a hospital!" Mary accused.

"The dead were coming back to life!" Matthew groaned, meeting her dark gaze with a look that told her to keep her anger towards William at bay. "Can you imagine, after going to War, after seeing so many atrocities happen to a man's body, to a man's mind…and then, coming back here and seeing someone that you know is dead…rise up and attack? Can you? No…no of course you can't, none of you can…but I understand," he turned and looked back at William. "Having fought in such a horrific war, and then seeing something like that…I don't think I can blame any man for being scared."

"Sir—"

"I'm not angry with you, William," Matthew reassured. "I…I don't blame you. And there's really little point, because I am standing here, before you all, alive and well," he forced a smile and met the younger man's gaze. "I'm thankful that you told me the truth; I can't imagine it was easy."

"No sir," William whispered, looking back down at the ground in shame.

Matthew nodded his head, not really knowing what else could be said on the matter. As far as he was concerned, the entire thing was done and dusted. Yet there was still the question in regarding the whereabouts of Tom's brother. And what Thomas had to do with all this.

"Tom," Matthew murmured, looking at his friend. "How did you learn about your brother?"

It was Sybil who spoke up. "We…" she glanced over Matthew's shoulder, but before he could follow her gaze to see who she was looking at, she continued. "Someone overheard a conversation Thomas was having. He revealed that he had been attacked…and that the person who had attacked him was left unconscious and chained, somewhere in the village."

Matthew looked at Thomas, shocked by the detail his cousin gave. "Is this true, Sgt. Barrow?"

"Aye, it's true," Tom growled. "You abandoned my brother to die!"

"HE ATTACKED ME!" Thomas accused. "I have just cause! Whereas William—"

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT PVT. MASON!" Matthew bellowed. "HE confessed his crime, he admitted his guilt! You have admitted _nothing!_ You haven't even confirmed that it was Tom's brother! NOW ANSWER ME ONCE AND FOR ALL, BARROW! _IS KIERAN BRANSON SOMEWHERE IN THE VILLAGE?"_

"He is," William murmured. "I was there when it happened."

Like a tennis match, everyone's eyes turned back to William. Even Daisy looked shocked by this revelation.

"You…you know about this?" Matthew asked, stunned again by William's words.

William nodded. "I…I found Sgt. Barrow chained, and Mr. Branson—" he looked at Tom who was looking just as shocked as the rest of them, but who was also looking furious at this revelation. "Mr. Branson's brother," he continued. "He was…it seemed that he was torturing Sgt. Barrow."

"Oh, how horrid," Cousin Violet murmured, adding her voice to the fray for the first time. "Tell me, Branson; are you aware of your brother's hobbies?"

"Please, Mama…" Robert groaned.

"It's true!" Thomas piped up. "He was trying to burn me with a torch! Trying to light my skin on fire—"

"Shut up!" Matthew snarled, turning back to William. "So you stopped him?"

"I…I distracted him," William explained. "I honestly didn't know who he was, but I ordered him to stop, I threatened him…but…but he didn't seem bothered…more annoyed by my presence, really."

Tom snorted, and Matthew glanced at him. He was muttering something in Gaelic, but he was able to make out the word "Kieran".

"By distracting him, Sgt. Barrow was able to…to knock him unconscious by kicking at his legs, causing him to fall forward and hit his head on the table—"

"He could be suffering from a concussion," Sybil murmured. "Or worse, some sort of hemorrhaging in the skull…"

Tom stiffened at Sybil's words and Matthew groaned and shook his head. He couldn't believe this had all occurred yesterday, when they were in the village. "So…you left him there? You chained him up…and left him there?"

William sighed and nodded his head. "Yes, sir."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Robert demanded. "Either of you?" he looked at Thomas with the same fury that he had for William.

"I should have said something, I know," William apologized, his throat tight with emotion. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, any forgiveness from anyone, your Lordship, and I'm not asking for it. I…I just…I couldn't bear to live with the secret any longer," his eyes met Tom's then. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Branson. I'm so, so sorry."

"But…but what I don't understand," Robert spoke again. "Is…how do you know this man was Branson's brother? I mean, did he say something to identify himself?"

"No, your Lordship," William answered. "I…I can only conclude, because his accent is similar to that of Mr. Branson's."

"Branson is hardly the first or only Irishman to be found in Yorkshire," Sir Richard remarked. "It could be anyone."

"It's Kieran," Tom muttered. "I know it is."

Matthew nodded. He was far more likely to agree that the man to whom William spoke was indeed Tom's brother and not some random Irishman who was passing through. He turned to Thomas then and asked, "And he's still there? At the constable station where you left him?"

Thomas swallowed and nervously nodded his head.

"Right…" Matthew sighed, turning and looking at Tom. "Let's go find your brother."

Thomas' eyes widened at this announcement. "But the Walkers! They've probably—"

"_For your sake,"_ Tom growled, his eyes like daggers on Thomas. "You better pray that they haven't."

He joined Matthew then and the two of them began to walk out of the library. Voices began to fly all at once, about what was happening, about what should be done, questions of every sort. But it was Mary's voice over all others that caught his ear. Not to mention her hand, that grabbed hold of his wrist to stop him from walking. "You're going back?" she gasped, staring up at him as if he were mad. In some ways, he supposed he was. "You…you just returned!"

"And now I must go," he simply answered, removing his arm from her hold. But she was fast, and continued to hold firm.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why must you? Surely Tom—" Matthew couldn't deny he was surprised to hear Mary call his friend by his Christian name, rather than Tom's subservient surname. "—Surely he can go on his own?"

Matthew shook his head. "He may need help."

"Then have someone else go with him!" she growled. "Have William, or Thomas—"

"I don't think that's wise," Matthew interrupted. No, he had a feeling that if Thomas went anywhere with Tom, he wouldn't be coming back. And he doubted the former footman was that stupid. No doubt Thomas was already locking himself away in hiding.

"WHY does it have to be you?" Mary demanded. "Why do this? Why must you insist on always playing 'the hero'?"

Matthew glanced around, not wanting to draw any more attention, especially before Robert or worse, Sir Richard, spotted the two of them talking. "He's my friend," Matthew murmured in a hushed voice, pulling Mary behind one of the stone columns in the corridor. "He needs me."

"_WE_ need you!" Mary insisted, grabbing hold of both his hands.

He was surprised by this sudden declaration. He thought he was the last person they needed, at least in her eyes. He thought she didn't care, in fact, hadn't she told him that things were better before he had come back? Why…why suddenly this change?

"You nearly died the last time you went into the village!"

"Died? No, no, I was fine—"

"What if something happens to you? You're stupid enough to do something like you did yesterday; risking your life for someone else, staying behind for someone else!"

"I will not abandon another man," Matthew muttered. "I didn't abandon any of my men on the front, and I will not do that now—"

"WHY? They've all abandoned you! Or would abandon you if they had the chance!"

"William didn't—"

"I DON'T CARE!" she practically screeched, tears now filling her eyes as she stared up at him, panic rising in her voice. "I thought you had DIED, Matthew! I was told you were dead, and then yesterday I thought you would never come back! I WILL NOT LOSE YOU AGAIN!"

He stared at her, his eyes searching her face…seeing the truth in her words, seeing the panic and the desperation in her heart reflected in the brown pools of her eyes.

And he threw caution to the wind. He did the one thing he had been thinking about doing, ever since his return. He reached forward, taking her face in his hands…and he crushed her lips beneath his own.


	25. Found

_Sorry again for the delay; had hoped to get this out last Sunday, but lots of stuff popped up keeping me from writing, and sometimes, even though you have an idea mapped out of how you want to tell a story, it's executing that idea that can be hassle. Anyway, here it is as at last, and I hope you enjoy it! For those of you who are fans of "The Walking Dead" you might recognize something. That's all I'm going to say :oP Thanks for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Five_

"**Found"**

Firm…

Warm…

Intoxicating…

A moan escaped from someone's mouth, she wasn't sure which. One minute she had been arguing with him, demanding that he stay behind, that he not do this foolish thing he was about to do…and the next minute she found herself panicking, all the horrible images that had come upon her late at night of his poor body, mangled across barb-wire or lying face down in a trench, and then to learn that he was alive but in a coma…and then to learn that he was dead in a London hospital when the chaos started. And then…to have him come back, after thinking and believing he was dead all this time…only to possibly lose him again, when Matthew had insisted on staying behind to find Thomas, and Sir Richard had dragged her away…

It was unbearable.

And now here he was, telling her that he was going, again, to the village to find yet another person, someone that none of them even knew! Some stranger who was in need, apparently. And Matthew—stupid, wonderful Matthew—just…had to go and help.

It infuriated her. It angered her. It frustrated her. It frightened her…

It reminded her why she loved him so much.

_He was never the sea monster; he was always Perseus…_my_ Perseus; and like any hero, he will ride off to help and protect those in need._

When he stepped towards her and took her face in his hands, she closed her eyes in anticipation, her lips already parting to greet his as she felt him bring her mouth closer, and then whimpered in delight as she felt his own mouth cover hers.

The last time they had kissed had been before everything went wrong; when they were in London for Sybil's season. Before the announcement of war, before the world fell apart; before she had allowed her aunt to prey upon her anxieties and doubts, thus keeping her from accepting Matthew's proposal.

_We could have been married all this time,_ she found herself thinking…and not for the first time. _We could have been married; perhaps have had a child or two? We could have been happy…_

But it was too late.

She was engaged now to another, and…and…

_Engagements_ _can be broken; they've broken many times! You wouldn't be the first woman to go back on your promise…_

But she had made a promise to Sir Richard. And…was this truly love? Or was she simply letting her panic in the moment get the better of her?

_I try to hold my head up high, I try to look calm and collected, and act as if everything is fine and I know what I'm doing…but I honestly don't. I'm scared, I'm unsure, I have doubts, and while I think I should do things for the sake of honor, at the same time I feel as if I'm sacrificing something dear…_

_ …Like my heart._

Her hands pushed against Matthew's shoulders then, and pushed him hard, causing the both of them to practically stumble backwards, each of them panting as they stared at the other.

Matthew's eyes were wide…as if realization was slowly dawning on him as to what they had been doing. "I…" he began, stammering slightly. She could feel her face grow hot. "I…I'm sorry…" he murmured.

She closed her eyes, praying that he would not see her tears. Her heart shattered at those simple words, but they had to be said. After all, she was the one who had put a stop to the kiss.

"Mary—"

"It's alright," she murmured, not lifting her eyes to his. It wasn't, of course; it was far from alright, but she couldn't really think of anything else to say. "It was just a kiss," she whispered, her eyes still not meeting his. "Just a kiss and nothing more."

Even though she wasn't looking at his face, she could feel Matthew frowning. _Hurt him, be cruel to him, and show that cold side to which you're famous for; the proof that you don't have a heart. That's what you're good at. That's all you're good at…_

It was the only way to protect herself from an even deeper pain.

"Mary—" he attempted again, but she immediately stepped away before he could make even the slightest gesture that might tempt her back into his arms.

"I will pray for your safety," she whispered. "As well as a quick return." She lifted her eyes then, her lips still throbbing and tingling from where his mouth had touched them. "Be careful," she murmured, and before he could even open his mouth to say anything further, she turned on her heel and walked away very quickly. She didn't want to draw attention to herself; like Edith, she longed for solitude.

Her vision was blurred by her tears, and she angrily wiped them away as she took the stairs, not caring if anyone was watching her pass, like the housemaid who had for many years become her friend and confidant. Or the butler who was a second father to her. Or their newest guest, who watched with wide eyes and flushed cheeks…and who had seen more than she should have…and who regretted every second.

* * *

"I'm going, Papa, and that is final!"

Robert glared at his youngest as she stood her ground, her hands on her hips and her eyes just as furious as his own. Damnation, she was a stubborn thing! She had far too much of her mother's American blood. And…far too much of himself, as well.

"Mr. Branson may be in the need of medical help!" she attempted to reason once again. "It's only right that I should go!"

"Then let Clarkson go! Someone will go downstairs and find him—"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "There's no time, Papa!"

"Then have Thomas go, or…I don't care, just…you're not going, that is final, I forbid it!" Robert roared.

She squared her shoulders and folded her arms across her chest. His words were falling on deaf ears. It was always an uphill battle with his youngest. "So you said the last time when Mary went, and yet she _still_ went!"

"That was different," Robert fumed, running a hand through his hair. "Sir Richard had gone with her—"

"Robert," Matthew attempted to calm his cousin. "I'll keep her safe; I'll make sure that no harm comes to her."

Robert's eyes however drifted to where a certain Irishman stood, looking extremely agitated and eager to get going. "It's not the Walkers I'm worried about," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Matthew…" Tom growled, catching the other man's eye and clearly trying very hard to lash out at everyone and tell them all to be quiet and just let them leave. His hands and feet were twitching with anxiety.

"I know, I know," Matthew sighed, before turning back and facing the others who were gathered around. "William, you better come with us; you can show us where to find Kieran."

William nodded his head, still looking deeply ashamed, but also resolute in helping. Matthew knew it would be better to have William accompany them than Thomas. Even though William was at fault in not saying anything until now, at least he had confessed his crimes…whereas Matthew had a sneaking suspicion that if Thomas had been given the opportunity, he would have either placed all the blame on William…or he wouldn't have said anything about the incident at all.

Not to mention Matthew wasn't sure if Thomas would return alive, if he were left alone with Tom.

"I don't like this," Robert muttered under his breath. "I don't like it one bit." He turned and caught his wife's profile, who was biting her bottom lip and watching Sybil intently as she was making herself busy, stuffing a few items into a medical case that she had retrieved from the room where Bates rested. "Cora, say something!" She always seemed to do a better job at reeling the girls in than he.

Cora caught his eye, and then looked back at Sybil who was holding her gaze now. Cora looked at him once more and he waited, waited for her to say something, to try and reason with Sybil, to convince her that this was not her battle, or at the very least convince her to send someone in search of Dr. Clarkson and have him go—

"Sybil's right," Cora finally murmured.

"WHAT?" Robert stuttered, staring at his wife as if she had just told him she was the queen of England.

"Sybil's right; there's no time to find Dr. Clarkson and the young man may need medical attention—and the longer they wait the less light they'll have…"

Robert turned his gaze to the window then. While it was still early afternoon, he saw what looked like storm clouds brewing in the distance.

"We need supplies as well," Cora added, this time addressing both Sybil and Matthew.

"Supplies?" Robert asked, his voice sounding more and more incredulous. Was this happening? Was his wife not only allowing their youngest to go with these men to attend some stranger (if that stranger was still alive), but _encouraging_ her to go as well?

"Yes, both Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore spoke to me before luncheon, telling me about how certain things are getting low in the store cupboard…" she looked at Sybil and Matthew. "I know this isn't the reason for your journey, and I do hope you are able to find Branson's brother, but…if perhaps you can get a few other things while you're in the village…?"

Sybil stared at Cora with wide, and somewhat disbelieving eyes. Her look matched the same one Robert was feeling. "Mama, I don't think that's—"

However, Matthew put on a smile and nodded his head. "Of course, Cousin Cora, in fact…" he looked over to where the timid kitchen maid stood, hovering in the background, looking as if she should run back below stairs, but at the same time worrying her lip as she watched William. "Daisy!" he called out to the girl, causing her to jump. "Daisy, will you accompany us? Help us get supplies to bring back to the house?"

Daisy stared at him, her large eyes blinking several times, her ability to speak having disappeared entirely (although she was unaccustomed to speaking to members of the family, he soon realized, so perhaps she truly did lack the ability to speak).

"Yes, Daisy will know what to get, that's perfect!" Cora said with a smile, nodding her head in encouragement, despite the deep scowl Carson was sending the kitchen maid as she timidly approached the rest of them.

"But she'll need someone to help her," Sybil added then. "Because the three of you," she said to Matthew, referring to himself, Tom, and William, "will be too busy trying to find Tom's brother—"

Robert's frown darkened, as he listened to his daughter speak of the chauffeur in such a casual and familiar manner.

"—And I'll be with you as well," Sybil continued, "Just in case he's injured—"

"I'll go."

They all turned their heads to see Lavinia, who spoke for the first time since this madness had begun.

Matthew's eyes widened. "Lavinia?" he seemed to be just as surprised as the others, although perhaps a little more so. "But…but you only arrived? I mean, you were just there yesterday—"

"So were you," she countered, not looking amused in the slightest. In many ways, she resembled Tom, looking eager to go. Yet she was also avoiding his eyes, he noticed, and kept glancing at him in irritation, but never holding his gaze for very long.

"Lavinia," he murmured, stepping closer. "You don't have to do this—"

"I do, actually," she interrupted. Matthew had been reaching for her arm, but she quickly moved away before he could touch her. "I do," she repeated, a little louder and meeting both Robert and Cora's gazes. "It's time I earned my keep around here."

Robert's eyes widened at this, and he suddenly felt extremely embarrassed. "Miss Swire, I…I can assure you that you do not—"

"I did not mean any insult, your Lordship," Lavinia murmured, putting on a small smile, even though the seriousness of her expression never changed. "Yet we live in a world where we must all pull our weight in order to survive."

Robert frowned at this, not entirely sure what to make of that statement. He didn't think that Miss Swire was trying to make some sort of…commentary on his behalf, however one glance at Sybil and he could see the grin on her face, which she quickly tried to suppress.

"So that's settled then?" Cora declared, causing Robert to frown again and look at her with incredulous eyes.

Matthew didn't seem so convinced. "Lavinia, I really think—"

"Matthew, I'm going to go without you…" Tom threatened, his hands gripping the doorframe, the muscles in his back very tense and distinct.

Matthew groaned and lifted his eyes heavenward. He couldn't believe how this day had turned out. No, he couldn't believe how…how EVERYTHING had turned out! He had awoken in a hospital, only to discover that the world had somehow been sucked into the 9th circle of Hell. One of the people who had saved him had been discovered in the village, and was here right now—a woman he greatly admired…and who he felt indebted to, for all that she and her father had done for him. Then he learned, today, that not only had William apparently left him to die in that hospital, but that Tom's brother was somewhere in the village, chained in some building and had been abandoned and left to die…and after declaring that he would help his friend find him…had an emotional confrontation with the woman he loved, and they had kissed!

No…no, she wasn't the woman he loved. She was the woman he had loved, but she was not his to love, not anymore. She belonged to another; she was engaged she—

Does any of that matter anymore? Do engagements matter in this world? By that same token, does honor matter?

He shook his head as soon as the thought entered his brain. Yes…yes, of course honor mattered—still matters. And therefore, so do such things like engagements. He would not be the beast and challenge Sir Richard Carlisle to some sort of duel…even if he was sorely tempted.

"Matthew—"

"Alright, yes!" he all but shouted. He ran a hand through his hair and gave his head another shake. It wasn't Tom's fault he was feeling conflicted. Nor was it Robert's, or Lavinia's, or even Mary's.

It was no one's fault but his own. Because he had left, in the end. He should have stayed and fought for her, he should have been stubborn in convincing her to marry him and accept his proposal, rather than turn and leave because his pride had been wounded and his heart had been broken by what seemed like her fickleness.

Now they were both miserable. And trapped in the midst of some sort of biblical apocalypse.

Everyone who had been in the front hall spilled outside now, following Tom who led the way, his steps quick and purposeful, as he walked at a brisk pace to the garage. Lavinia and Sybil were moving quickly just behind the Irishman, trying to keep up.

"We should take two cars!" Sybil announced, interrupting her cousin's thought about her eldest sister. "That way we'll have enough room for Mr. Branson to lie down, if he's injured…while the other one can be used to take supplies."

It made sense, and Matthew glanced behind himself at Daisy, who still looked stunned that not only had she been addressed by the Countess of Grantham, but that she was traveling with them to the village. Matthew wondered how often the kitchen maid ventured beyond the grounds? He had feeling this was the first time since everything happened.

"It will be alright," William murmured into Daisy's ear. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

The kitchen maid looked up at him and gave a tiny nod, but still looked absolutely petrified. Thankfully, she wasn't completely petrified, because she was walking (thanks to William) who was guiding her towards Matthew's Rolls-Royce.

"Sybil!" Robert hissed, glaring as he watched his daughter approach the car that Tom was getting into. "Sybil, go with Matthew—SYBIL!"

She wasn't listening, naturally. Seemed to be a trend amongst all the Crawley women—do the opposite of anything a man ordered or asked.

"I'll ride with you," Lavinia murmured, climbing into the car with Sybil, causing Matthew to frown. Lavinia was being cold to him again, like she had been that morning. He thought things were better, now that they had been open and honest with each other.

Not entirely open and honest…

Matthew sighed, and checked the boot of the Rolls-Royce, making sure they had enough weapons for everyone. But hopefully they wouldn't have to use them. Hopefully they would go into the village, find Tom's brother, and get out of there, just like that.

…_After_ Daisy and Lavinia gathered the supplies that were needed.

Matthew cursed himself then. He had been so preoccupied with teaching everyone how to defend themselves, that he hadn't bothered to learn about the state of supplies…although he knew that some things were few and far between. He would have to rectify that when he returned.

Not that Robert wasn't capable of managing things, of course! Just…just…

It was another headache that would no doubt result in an unnecessary battle, and he was not looking forward to it.

The engine had already roared to life on Tom's car. Matthew took that as his cue, and quickly started the engine to the Rolls-Royce.

"Be careful!" Cora called out over the sound of the engines. "And God speed!"

"We will," Matthew reassured, looking to his other cousin. Robert was glaring at the back of Sybil's head, before managing to turn his eyes to Matthew. "I promise you, Robert, no harm will come to her, I will make sure of it."

Robert didn't say anything, he only sighed and nodded his head, before taking a step away thus allowing the cars to turn around on the gravel drive, and head down the road that would lead them away from the protection of Downton Abbey…and take them once more into the dangers beyond.

The cars had barely passed the gates of the grounds, before Robert turned on his wife, the furious stare he had been holding for his youngest daughter now fixed on her. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded.

Cora actually jumped at his tone. "I beg your pardon?"

Robert wanted to scream, to throw his hands up in the air, before taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. But he did none of those things, for he knew that if he tried, quite rightly, his wife would deliver a powerful slap. So instead, he took a few steps back and began to pace in furious circles, like a caged tiger.

"How…how could you just allow our daughter to…to…" he was pointing in the direction the two cars had disappeared. "You ALLOWED HER to—no, no, it was more than that, you practically ENCOURAGED HER to go with them—"

"Sybil has proven that she is quite capable of taking care of herself," Cora interrupted, folding her arms across her chest, clearly not appreciating her husband shouting at her.

Robert stared at her. "Have you…are you mad?"

"Oh stop it, Robert!" she hissed. "If truth be known, my eyes have been opened these last few days!"

"Eyes have been…what on earth are you talking about?" But Cora simply rolled her eyes and turned her back on him, heading back to the house. No, no, he was not finished with this argument, and he would much rather have it out here, where the servants couldn't see or overhear them (although Carson remained at the door but a few yards away, and was watching everything unfold. Not that Robert had to fear the Downton butler spreading gossip to the few staff they still had. "Have you forgotten how our daughter returned, just a few days ago, covered head to toe in—"

"Of course I haven't forgotten!" Cora groaned, whirling around and facing him. "It was the most terrifying thing to behold! I remember seeing her and…and rushing forward and snatching her up, crying because it was like something out of a nightmare!"

He shook his head, clearly confused by her explanation. "Then…explain to me, please…_how_ could you just let her go now?"

"Oh Robert, have you forgotten that conversation we had that night? About how it was time to change strategies?"

His eyes narrowed. "I didn't think that meant allowing our daughter to walk into danger," he grumbled. "Much less encouraging her—"

"I did _not_ encourage her!" Cora snapped. "Sybil was right; Branson's brother may require medical attention and Matthew was right not to take Thomas. We have no idea where Dr. Clarkson has gone to, and there really wasn't any time! Sybil was there and she was ready, and she's a wonderful, capable nurse!" his wife argued. "And she has proven that she can take care of herself. And besides, she'll be safer this time than last, because there's strength in numbers! She's got Matthew and William, along with Branson beside her—"

Robert gritted his teeth. "Yes, something needs to be done about _that_," he muttered under his breath. He was not blind; it was becoming rather clear how his daughter seemed to hold her rescuer from all those nights ago in a rather "high esteem". A little too high, for his liking.

Cora sighed and turned back to face him. "As strange as this may sound to you Robert…Sybil's not the one I'm worried about."

His eyes widened at this announcement. "What on earth do you mean?" Mary and Edith obeyed him, at least. He didn't have to worry about either of them running away to fight Walkers or…or making _inappropriate friendships_.

Cora sighed again, and spoke to him in a lowered voice, even though there was no one else to hear them. "I'm worried about Mary."

Robert's brow furrowed. "Mary?" He couldn't possibly imagine why she was worried. Mary seemed more than capable of following his "rules" and while he had more or less turned a blind eye to allowing the women of the house to be trained in matters of defense, his daughter seemed to be respecting his wishes, and keeping to the grounds unless chaperoned, by either Carson or Sir Richard. So for his wife to sound quite serious about her worries for Mary, completely baffled him. "Why?"

Cora rolled her eyes, which irritated Robert immensely because it clearly meant that "he should know" what it was she was referencing. "I'm worried because…" she paused, as if trying to figure out how to best say this. "We all thought Matthew was dead, Robert," she explained. "We all thought he was dead and all of us grieved in our own way when heard the news…"

He couldn't believe he was hearing this. He even told her that, shaking his the entire time. "Are you…are you _actually_ saying…_what I think you're saying?"_

Cora glared at him. "Don't look at me that way Robert—"

"Forgive me, Cora, but _how_ am I supposed to look at you?" he asked through gritted teeth. "How am I supposed to look at you when you are basically telling me that you wish Matthew _weren't here?_ That perhaps he _had died_ in that hospital? Or that he _will die_ when he's out there rescuing Branson's brother?"

"Oh you are exaggerating!"

"Am I?" he retorted, his tone very accusatory. "Because I don't think I am! I think that is what you are trying to say, you just don't want to be so blunt because of how heartless it makes you sound!"

"HEARTLESS?" Cora practically shrieked. "How dare you! Robert, Mary is our _daughter!_ And as fond as you are of Matthew—and _I am fond of him too_, so _don't you dare_ try and turn that back on me—but Mary is and _always_ will be my concern, and the last thing she or any of us need is Matthew…._confusing_ her, and possibly causing a rift to form between herself and Sir Richard—"

"Yes, well if you think so little of our daughter's capability of being sensible, then yes, I suppose you should be concerned, but considering that this is MARY to whom we are speaking and not Sybil, then I might share your worry. But your lack of faith in Mary knowing her own mind and falling victim to something so frivolous—"

"My 'lack of faith'?" Cora repeated, her eyes narrowed as she glared back at him. "Really Robert; sometimes I wonder if you even know your daughters—or if you know women at all."

This caused him to stumble back slightly at her insult. "Apparently I don't, according to you."

They both stared at each other, each fuming, each having a great deal more to say, but each debating about whether those words would do any good…or simply bring more anger and pain. In the end, it was Robert who broke the silence.

"If Matthew suddenly being back is causing Mary some…frustration…then I am sorry for her," he muttered. "However, if you want to know the truth, I think Matthew an improvement to Sir Richard."

"Robert!" Cora hissed, quickly looking over her shoulder, as if expecting Sir Richard Carlisle to magically appear. "Sir Richard has done a great deal for this family—"

"Yes, so you keep reminding me," Robert muttered. "And what a wonderful foundation on which to build a happy and successful marriage."

Cora rolled her eyes at his sarcasm.

As far as he could tell, this…"conversation" was over, so he turned to retreat back to the house, walking past her and not bothering to see if she followed. "I may be 'out of touch' and 'not understand' a woman's heart as you seem to be accusing me of, Cora," he muttered as he passed. "But I'm not the only one, if you think Mary will be completely happy with Sir Richard."

"She can grow to love him…" Cora murmured, more to herself than to him, although Robert could hear her perfectly. "You grew to love me."

He paused and closed his eyes. Yes, he remembered when the realization finally dawned on him that he loved his headstrong, and sometimes flamboyant, but delightful American bride. Sometimes it seemed surreal to think there was a time when he wasn't hopelessly in love with Cora…

"I hardly think it's fair to compare our relationship with that of Sir Richard and Mary," he murmured back.

Cora didn't say anything. Another pause passed between them. And once again, it was Robert who broke it.

"Perhaps…perhaps it's Edith we should be the most worried about…"

Cora, who had been looking down, suddenly lifted her head at her husband's words. "Edith?"

Robert sighed and nodded. "She's been very subdued…and is always keeping to herself. If you are going to worry about any of our daughters, Cora, I think Edith is the one that you should perhaps focus your thoughts on the most…"

He didn't mean to sound harsh then—well, he didn't mean to sound as harsh as he did. He knew Cora loved Sybil, even if he didn't agree with allowing her to travel with Matthew and the others into the village. And he knew that she loved Mary, even if he thought her wrong in her worries. And of course he knew that she loved Edith…and he knew that like him, she worried for their middle daughter, who did seem in many ways, the most cut off from anyone in that house.

And he was right. Because as Cora watched her husband go back inside the house, she had been thinking just that. She had been thinking about her precious Edith, who always seemed, unfairly, to slip in the cracks between Mary and Sybil, who was the quiet child, the shy child, the one who didn't take risks, at least as far as she knew. And who truly seemed to have built some sort of wall around herself.

Her arms ached suddenly to hold her baby. Without another moment's hesitation, she marched into the house, barely acknowledging Carson as he held the door open for her, and went straight up the stairs, her destination clear. She knew she was by no means the perfect mother; if she were, she would give each of her daughters a much better world than the one they resided in now. But Cora Crawley was prepared to do anything for her girls. After all, if she could carry a dead man's body from one side of the house to another, she could fight off a few monsters—living or dead.

* * *

"STOP THE CAR!" Matthew called out to the Renault in front of him. Thankfully, Tom had heard him over the growl of the engine. Or someone had alerted him to stop, because the Renault paused just as Matthew stopped his Rolls-Royce.

"Why have we stopped?" Tom asked impatiently. "This is nowhere near the constable's station, is it William?"

William and Daisy had climbed out of the Rolls-Royce as well, and were looking a little confused as well. "No sir," William answered, glancing over at Matthew. "The constable's station is near the hospital—"

"I know that," Matthew muttered, transferring some weapons from the boot of the Rolls-Royce to the Renault. "And it's right for us to take car there in case Mr. Branson needs to lie down," he continued working. "But the grocer's is here…and Lavinia and Daisy can begin to gather whatever supplies are needed back at the house, while the rest of us continue onward.

Having heard her name being mentioned, Lavinia climbed down from the Renault, insisting that Tom didn't have to help her. Matthew looked at Lavinia, wishing he could read whatever she was thinking. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, holding a rifle in his hands, fully intending to give it to Lavinia, who had proved herself to be more than capable of handling a gun earlier that day during shooting lessons.

"Of course," Lavinia answered, giving Matthew a smile, although he could easily tell it was strained and not genuine. What on earth was the matter? He had a good mind to take her shoulders and force her to look at him and tell him what was on her mind…

…But now was not the time.

"Come on, Mason," Matthew muttered to William as he moved towards the Renault.

William nodded his head and then turned back to Daisy, who was trembling and looking as if she had just woken up…or in the midst…of some terrible dream. "Right, I'm going to go with them now," William explained.

Daisy bit her lip, and her hand, which sometime during the drive to village, clung to his own and refused to let go. "William, I…I don't like this…"

William reached into the holster he kept at his hip, and handed Daisy his pistol. Her eyes widened and she began shaking her head, muttering words about "I couldn't possibly…!" while he more or less forced the pistol into her hands, thus removing her hold on him.

"You can," William assured, smiling down at her as her trembling fingers wrapped around the gun. "You can; just remember what I taught you, alright?"

"But William—"

"Miss Swire will be with you and keep an eye on things while you gather supplies."

"BUT WILLIAM—"

"It will be alright!" he tried to assure once more. "I'll be back here in a matter of minutes; I'll help carry anything heavy from the grocer's for you," he murmured, trying to sound positive, when Matthew could hear the obvious distress in the younger man's voice. It reminded Matthew of the many times he had to assure soldiers on the front.

Daisy was biting her lip and looked very unsure. Her hand was literally shaking as it held the pistol. Lavinia thankfully stepped forward and took the gun, at least momentarily, out of Daisy's hand. William smiled down at the kitchen maid, holding her face in both hands, giving her a smile that was meant to both reassure and encourage. Matthew felt his throat tighten at the look, and felt his eyes drift towards Lavinia. She caught his gaze and gave him a very brief smile, before turning her face away to look at the ground.

William leaned forward then, and gave Daisy's forehead a quick kiss. Daisy clearly gasped at the gesture, but if she was going to say anything further, she didn't have the chance. William released her and then turned quickly and climbed into the Renault next to Sybil.

"Come on!" Tom called, impatient and eager to get to the constable's station, as Matthew could understand.

Matthew gave one final look at Lavinia, who had lifted her eyes once more. "We'll be back soon, I promise," he vowed.

Lavinia simply nodded her head. "Good luck!"

He was thankful for those words, as simple as they were. He had a feeling they were going to need it.

* * *

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE'S GONE WITH THEM TO THE VILLAGE?" Beryl Patmore shouted, staring up at the butler with wide, disbelieving eyes. The Downton cook had spent a bulk of time after fixing everyone lunch, in the store cupboard with Dr. Clarkson, who desperately wanted to search through the various spices they had, but never gave his reasons. She always found Dr. Clarkson a peculiar sort, and didn't quite know what to make of the man. And while she didn't know the details of whatever had happened to him in the village after the madness had erupted, she knew it mustn't have been something good…especially considering the way her good friend Elsie Hughes eyed the doctor with suspicion.

She found herself cursing Dr. Clarkson's name, as she realized how much she had missed. Apparently Thomas had gone into the library, to make some sort of announcement about William, and then Mr. Branson had burst into the library, attacking Thomas (Lord, she wished she had been there to see that! She never cared for the ex-footman turned medical sergeant, especially after the way he played with poor Daisy's heart once upon a time), and shouting something about how Thomas had purposefully left Mr. Branson's brother…to die in the village!

Mr. Carson was red in the face when he came below stairs to share the news. William then entered the library, and confessed to not only knowing about what had happened with Mr. Branson's brother, but that he had purposefully left Capt. Crawley to die in London when the madness broke out…and was now, as penance she supposed, gone to the village to show Capt. Crawley and Mr. Branson where the other Mr. Branson was…but before leaving, her Ladyship suggested that someone go to gather supplies! And apparently, DAISY had volunteered—no, ORDERED—to go with the others.

And that was where her kitchen maid was. Not down here, peeling carrots and washing the dirty from cabbages as she should be doing, but…on some mad errand in a village crawling with those…those…those things!

"If any harm comes to her, I'll never forgive the woman!" Beryl muttered under her breath, trying not to show her fear over the situation.

"Mrs. Patmore!" Mr. Carson exclaimed, looking shocked that she would dare say something that was negative about her Ladyship. "Need I remind you—need I remind US ALL that we serve the Crawley family? That they have the right to order—"

"She still should have informed me!" Beryl muttered. And really, did any of this whole "who serves and works for whom" matter anymore? She was starting to see Capt. Crawley's vision for Downton in the current world in which they lived, clearer and clearer. Perhaps Ethel was right, whenever she complained about how "little had changed".

"I understand you're upset," Elsie murmured, causing Beryl to laugh bitterly. "But…" she continued, eyeing Mr. Carson before he could deliver a reprimand for Beryl's lack of "respect" to her employers. "…It is true, you and I have been talking about how there is a need to get more supplies. The vegetable garden that you, Daisy, and Lady Sybil planted last autumn is helping, but…there's only so much it can do. And we have a few more mouths to feed now…"

Beryl rolled her eyes. Yes, she was well aware how things had changed…and after spending a good deal of time in the store cupboard earlier and realizing they had more weapons than cans of food, yes, she was very well aware that their supplies were running low. Still, she hadn't made a list and she not only worried about Daisy's safety…but also if the girl would even know what to get?

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Elsie tried to reassure, patting Beryl's shoulder.

Beryl groaned and shook her head, not sure what to say; only wishing that perhaps she had been the one to go instead of Daisy. Or that she had been allowed to travel with her and help.

"I mean it though," she sighed, not caring if Mr. Carson frowned at her. "If something happens to that girl…or William, for that matter…I'll never forgive her Ladyship."

Elsie sighed and looked at Mr. Carson whose jaw was clenched quite tightly, as if he were struggling to keep the retorts from escaping. "I don't know if it's fair to put all that blame or responsibility on her Ladyship," Elsie tried to reason. "Daisy was there…and someone who knows the kitchen needed to go. It makes sense that her Ladyship would ask her! And there wasn't time to—"

"I know, I know," Beryl muttered, pushing her way past the housekeeper and butler. "Now if you will excuse me, I have a supper to fix with what little food we do have."

Elsie sighed and encouraged Mr. Carson to leave the cook to her own devices, gently pushing him to go in the opposite direction. Beryl picked up the carrots that Daisy should have been peeling and chopping if she were there, and began to do the job herself, muttering under her breath all the while.

Yes, she knew her friends were right, she knew it wasn't her Ladyship's fault to ask Daisy to go for this reason, and really…Beryl wouldn't trust anyone else other than Daisy to do the job, if she couldn't do it herself.

But what if something happened? After the attacks that had occurred in the village yesterday…and the other day when Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson had driven to that petrol station…and then when Mr. Bates and his lot returned from Malton...it just seemed that the world and all of its monsters were closing in on them!

And poor Daisy, who barely had the strength to hold a pistol, let alone rifle, was somewhere out there in the midst of it. And unlike that brute Thomas…this was a monster Beryl couldn't chase away.

…At least not without a firm rolling pin. Or her sharpest kitchen knife.

Beryl stopped her peeling and looked up across the kitchen, to where all the carving knives were hanging. She hadn't realized it until just now…but one of the knives was missing! One of her best knives for that matter!

"Where is the bloody thing?" Daisy was usually very good (anymore, certainly) about putting the knives back in their proper places. So what had become of that one?

* * *

Tom had parked the Renault just outside the constable's station—although it was not his best parking job, in truth the Renault shook when he quickly grabbed hold of the break lever, causing the tires to screech and everyone in the car to gasp and practically tumble forward. No, not his best driving, certainly, but he was eager and desperate to find Kieran, to make sure he was alright.

"Tom—" he heard Matthew say, but he ignored him, he simply leapt out of the driver's seat, and ran around to the back to grab his rifle. "Tom!" Matthew began, still in the process of climbing out of the car as he ran past his friend.

William hadn't told them that was the door to take, but it didn't matter, Tom as through it, his rifle drawn and ready to shoot at anything that dared cross his path. He could hear the voices of the others behind him. Sybil calling after him, and Matthew, of course, probably muttering curses at how stupid he was being, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered but finding Kieran.

His brother was a hothead. His brother was a liability. His brother was dangerous, or could be dangerous if not handled correctly. And there were times when Tom couldn't stand the man. But Kieran was his brother, who despite all his faults (and there were many) had watched over him, and helped him, had kept him safe, even before the Walkers started to attack. Tom would never forget what his brother did for him in Liverpool…and now it was his turn to return the favor.

"KIERAN!" he shouted, pushing various pieces of overturned furniture out of the way. "KIERAN, IT'S ME!"

Matthew groaned a curse as he watched Tom move ahead. "Sybil, stay behind me," he ordered. "William, take the rear…and just…be prepared, all of you…"

Matthew didn't say it, but he was wondering it ever since he had learned that Tom's brother had been left here. The place was a mess, and it was clear, judging by the bones of animals he could see in various corners, that Walkers had been in here. What if Walkers had come in after Kieran? What if Kieran himself…was now one of them?

Oh God, would he have the strength to shoot Tom's brother? He hadn't been able to when he had encountered Molesley and Mrs. Bird. Would Tom be able to do it? Would Tom allow them to do it? _Oh please, don't let it come to that_, he silently prayed.

"Down that way, sir," William told him, as Matthew saw a door that led down a row of wooden steps. "The jail cells were below…that's…that's where I had found him."

Matthew nodded, not liking how dark it was growing as they began to descend the stairs. "Tom?" he called out, but didn't hear anything. "TOM!"

"Tom!" Sybil called out this time, her voice filling with worry, from what Matthew could hear. She was gripping a pistol in one hand, and her medical bag in the other. "Tom, please, answer us!"

Matthew groaned, and reached into his pocket for a matchbook he kept. He struck a match and held the tiny light in front of him. "Tom? Where are you? Have you found something? Is he there?"

They were all at the bottom of the staircase, and there was still no answer, until a choked and strange sound was heard. "Aye…"

_Oh no._ Matthew swallowed, having a feeling that his friend had just made a horrifying discovery.

"Up there!" Sybil whispered. Matthew looked down the dark corridor to where another orange glow could be seen. Tom must have struck a match as well. "Do you smell smoke?" Sybil asked.

Yes, he could smell smoke very distinctly. Like a fire, that had been built was now nothing but a pile of ash and cinders.

"Tom," Matthew called out, approaching where the other orange glow was shining. He swallowed, prepared for the worst, prepared to see the body of Kieran Branson…dead and beyond all hope, lying on the hard stone floor.

But that wasn't what they found.

Matthew's eyes widened as he approached Tom, who was now kneeling on the ground…and holding…a blood-soaked carving knife?

He lifted the match, trying to see what he could before it burnt out completely. Where was the body? He didn't see Kieran's body anywhere! But…but surely…?

"I don't understand…" Matthew murmured. "I…I thought you said he was here?"

Tom sighed and leaned away from where he was kneeling, still holding the knife in his hands. "A part of him is…"

That was when Matthew, Sybil, and William gasped and stumbled back…upon seeing the pool of blood…and the remains of a bloody hand, still attached to the chain on the wall.


	26. Struggles

_I apologize for the long delay with this story. I am completely at the mercy of my muse, and I really wanted to get the pacing of the next few chapters down; I know what I want to happen, it's just a matter of getting to those moments (and I'm always surprised-pleasantly, I'll add-by how some sections just become bigger than I had originally intended, and that's all the characters fault ;o) if they weren't so complex, maybe I would get from point A to point B a lot sooner, but that's ok; it's fun to examine our favorite DA characters in the zombie apocalypse!_

_Anyway, I should warn you that within the next few chapters, we'll start to see some "major" character deaths. So just be prepared. I want to dedicate this chapter to **Piperholmes**, an awesome writer herself, but who has been waiting patiently for this update, and who even told me she imagines fanfic for my fanfic :oP I think that's the best compliment a person can receive, actually! Anyway, I hope you enjoy and thanks again for your patience and for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Six_

"**Struggles"**

Matthew couldn't take his eyes away, even though his stomach was churning at the sight. He had seen far bloodier things during the War; whole bodies blown to pieces right in front of his eyes. And yet something about the severed hand, just…hanging there…dripping blood onto the ground, and the knowledge that the kitchen knife which Tom held had been used to cut the arm away from that hand…

Sybil's own hand had flown to her mouth, and she seemed to be taking some long, deep breaths, as if to calm herself. He turned to his cousin, prepared to catch her should she faint, but Sybil shook her head, her hand patting Matthew's shoulder in assurance. "I'm fine," she whispered, nodding her head. Matthew gave her a small smile and nodded back. Like him, no doubt as a nurse she had seen some horrible things too. But still, it seemed that no matter how many atrocities one viewed, it was always possible to feel overwhelmed and lightheaded when viewing the next.

William was also staring, but unlike Matthew and Sybil, his look wasn't so much horror but of deep sorrow. "Oh no…" he murmured, gazing at the hand. Tom looked up at the sound of William's voice, and Matthew could see the hard set jaw that was clenched, as well as the angry tears that shimmered in his friend's eyes. "Oh Mr. Branson, I…I'm so sorry."

Matthew knew William meant well with his apology, however he could also understand that Tom would not appreciate the sympathetic words, no matter how sincere they were, and the Irishman proved this by taking a threatening step towards William, but Matthew was quick to intervene, getting himself between the two.

"Tom, that's not going to help your brother," he tried to reason, locking his eyes with the Irishman.

"My brother is past help now," Tom growled, his eyes avoiding Matthew's and moving towards William, who was shrinking back under his glare.

"We don't know that!" Matthew hissed, trying to offer a glimmer of hope, as well as keep the peace a little longer.

"Matthew's right, Tom," Sybil spoke, causing all three men to turn their attention to her. She was kneeling on the ground, examining the hand and the pool of blood beneath it. Apparently there were the remains of a candle on the ground, and Sybil had taken the opportunity to light it with one of Matthew's matches. The candle not only illuminated the ghastly sight of the severed hand, but it also provided some clues, which Sybil was pointing to them. "Look…" she said, her finger following the ground. "Notice the drops?"

Matthew frowned and followed Sybil's finger as it continued to point. William and Tom were looking as well, and soon they could see what she was referring to.

A trail had been left behind. A trail of blood.

"I'm not an expert," Sybil began, "but based on what I do know and can tell about this…amputation," she swallowed before continuing. "This was done not that long ago; perhaps within the past hour."

"The past hour?" Tom stared at her with wide, shocked eyes.

Sybil nodded. "The blood still seems somewhat fresh—and the drops still look to be red; if it had happened many hours ago, they would be brown."

"He's alive," Tom whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, although they all had heard him. "He's alive and he's hurt and we need to find him!"

"Tom, wait!" Matthew grabbed his friend's shoulder to keep him from running off like he had done when they had first arrived at the constable's station. "We need to stay together!"

Tom shook Matthew's hand and glared back him with venom in his eyes and voice. "My brother is out there—bleeding and missing his right hand!" he growled. "He needs me!"

"And we'll find him!" Matthew hissed. "But he's going to need medical attention, you'll probably need help him carrying, because I'm sure he's quite weak. Not to mention if we find ourselves under attack by Walkers. So it's important that we stay together, do you understand?"

Tom was still glaring at him, but it seemed that at least some of Matthew's words were starting to have an effect. "Aye," he grumbled under his breath at last. "But we're not waiting around here; we need to—"

"We won't have to," Sybil's voice interrupted. They all turned again to where she was, a few feet away, holding the candle aloft as she followed the drops of blood on the ground. "He went this way," she told them, pointing at the trail that led towards an opened door…which led to a dark passage just beyond.

"That's the passage that led me here!" William spoke up at last.

"The passage you took from the hospital?" Matthew asked, recalling William's story about how he had found Thomas.

"Of course," Sybil murmured. "Yes, I remember hearing stories about that passage! It was designed to take any prisoners from the constable's station to the hospital, so as to avoid going out on the street if needs be; I thought it was just some ghost story the senior nurses told to scare us volunteers, but…" she shook her head in amazement that the story was true. "It makes sense—he would take that passage, because he would know that the things he needs are at the hospital!"

"Which is crawling with Walkers," Tom groaned.

He moved then to the door where Sybil was standing, ready to begin the journey down the dark passage to the hospital to find Kieran, but Sybil's hand reached out and touched his arm to stop him. "Wait, I'll lead the way, I have the candle and I'll keep my eyes on the ground for the trail—"

Matthew frowned, and recalled the promise he had made to Robert about keeping Sybil out of harm's way. "Sybil, I don't think that's a good idea, I—"

However, he should have realized he didn't need to raise the protest. Someone else had beaten him to it.

"Over my dead body are you going first!" Tom protested.

Sybil stared at him, looking shocked both because he had raised his voice to her, as well as because of the intense and concerned stare he was giving her.

"I'm perfectly capable of—"

"You're _not_ going down that tunnel first, Sybil," he growled.

She narrowed her eyes in a way that Matthew had seen Mary do to him in the past. This wasn't going to end well—for Tom.

"Do not speak to me as if you're Carson or my father!" she snapped.

"God, Sybil, this isn't about whether or not you're capable of defending yourself—"

"Oh isn't it?" she countered. "What, because you're 'a man', you should lead the way?"

"Because I'm more experienced at shooting and killing those things than you!" he retorted.

Matthew groaned. "Tom, Sybil, please—"

"You can't hold a rifle _and_ the candle at the same time!"

"I can say the same about you holding that candle and your medical bag!"

"I'll go first."

"Tom, you really are being stubborn and pig-headed!"

"ME? _I'm_ being stubborn and pig-headed?"

"Yes, you!"

"I'll go first!"

"You're not going down that tunnel first, and that is final!"

"YOU _do not_ ORDER ME, Branson!"

"Oh beggin' your pardon, _milady_—"

"I SAID I'LL GO FIRST!"

The shout echoed off the walls of the prison cell. The two bickering opponents turned to look at Matthew—but it wasn't he who spoke. All of their eyes turned to stare at William, who was stepping forward and holding his hand out for Sybil's candle. "I'll go first," he repeated for a fourth time.

"William—" Matthew began to protest. He knew the private was upset by everything that had happened and had been revealed that day. Yet despite all that, he knew William was a good man and he didn't want the lad to sacrifice himself to prove that goodness and earn his forgiveness.

But William held up a hand at Matthew and shook his head. "This makes the most sense, sir," he calmly explained. "I've been down that tunnel already. And I didn't have a light with me then. I'm sure I can lead us all back to the hospital quickly, and then we can find Mr. Branson's brother, and provide him the help he needs."

No one said anything then. Tom kept his mouth closed and Sybil looked down at her feet, both of them looking a little shame-faced for the silly argument they had just had. And really, William's words made the most sense. Matthew sighed and nodded his head. "Very well, Mason," he gave the private a salute, which William quickly returned. "Lead us onward, then."

* * *

She hadn't meant to spy, honestly. She had left John's room upon hearing the arguing that was spilling into the hall below, recognizing Lady Mary's voice, and hearing the clear sounds of agitation and distress. She was concerned for the woman who, for quite some time now, she had begun to think of as a "friend", even though a part of her knew that she shouldn't. The lines weren't that blurred, despite what Lady Sybil, or Gwen, may have thought. Still, she wanted to make sure Lady Mary was alright, so he excused herself from John's side to see what the commotion was, and stared in shock as she saw Lady Mary and Capt. Crawley locked in a passionate embrace.

Anna felt her cheeks flush, and she quickly turned her face away. No, no, she should not have seen this. This was something that was no meant for her eyes—or anyone's to be sure. She knew Lady Mary was upset; the last few evenings especially. Every time Anna came to help Lady Mary's room to help her change, she would find eldest Crawley daughter sitting and looking...well, in truth, looking rather conflicted, if not depressed. But this was different from the melancholy Anna had seen with Lady Edith; something was troubling Lady Mary, and even though she never spoke of what those troubles were, Anna had a feeling they were connected the newly returned future Earl of Grantham.

And this kiss was proving that point.

She heard hush voices next, and even though she knew she shouldn't, she couldn't help herself, and turned to see Lady Mary and Capt. Crawley looking at one another with the same passion they had exchanged just moments ago when they were kissing, but now they were standing a little further apart, and from what she could tell, it was Lady Mary who was trying to put distance between herself and Capt. Crawley.

The words were spoken in such soft tones, that Anna couldn't hear them. Yet she had little doubt as to what they were about. And she watched with a heavy heart as her friend tearfully parted from Capt. Crawley, rushing up the stairs to escape his presence. Anna quickly moved back into the doorway of John's room, and held her breath as she watched Lady Mary turn down the corridor at the top of the stairs that led to her room. She waited, and then heard the distinct sound of the door slamming shut.

The next thing she knew, chaos had spilled into the hall. A great number of voices were speaking all at once, from his Lordship and her Ladyship, to Lady Sybil, to Mr. Branson and Capt. Crawley, who had remained behind after parting from Lady Mary. While it was difficult to make sense of the entire situation, Anna thought she was able to put enough of the pieces of the conversations together to understand that Capt. Crawley and Mr. Branson…along with Lady Sybil and another, were returning to village to…find someone in need of medical attention. At least that seemed to be the reason as to why his Lordship and Lady Sybil were arguing.

Anna glanced over her shoulder to see that her Mr. Bates had fallen asleep once again. It was amazing in some ways, how sound he slept thanks in part to the morphine Dr. Clarkson had given him. She hated leaving his side, but right now, she knew he was in good hands. He would be fine, she assured herself, so she slipped out of the room, shut the door behind her, and then with light footsteps, hurried down the corridor to Lady Mary's room.

She paused at the door and looked around, wanting to make sure no one, in particular Sir Richard, was nearby who might interrupt. "Milady?" she hissed as she scratched against the door's surface, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention if she knocked. "Milady, can I come in?"

She held her breath and waited. She didn't hear anything, not even the sounds of sniffles. Perhaps she should let Lady Mary be? Really, she had no place in this matter. Yet Lady Mary had done so many things to help her and Mr. Bates; John would still be suffering in the grips of pain had Lady Mary not insisted on going to the hospital to find the medicine he needed. It was her turn to offer some relief, if that were possible.

She lifted her hand to knock properly this time, however before her knuckles touched the surface of the wood, the door creaked open slightly and Anna saw Lady Mary's eyes peeking back at her.

"Is there anyone else?" she whispered, and Anna quickly shook her head. With that, Lady Mary opened the door a little wider, and Anna quickly slipped inside. As soon as she had entered, Lady Mary poked her head outside, looking quickly in either direction of the corridor, and once satisfied with her inspection, shut the door and locked it.

"Sir Richard didn't follow you?" Lady Mary asked, looking at Anna and looking rather frantic when she asked.

Anna shook her head. "No, I don't think anyone even knows that I've even left John—" she blushed. "I mean, Mr. Bates' room."

Lady Mary gave a little smile at Anna's slip of the tongue, before shaking her head. "No need to be so formal when talking about your future husband," she murmured. "At least not in my presence."

Anna smiled back and nodded her head in thanks. However her smile quickly faded to a look of concern, the very concern that had brought her here to her mistress' room. "Milady, forgive me, but I—"

"How is he doing?" Lady Mary asked, crossing the room and sitting down at her vanity. "Bates, I mean," she clarified.

"Better, milady," Anna obediently answered. "He hasn't mentioned anything about the pain, really; not since your return with Dr. Clarkson and the medicine."

"Good, good, I'm glad to hear it," Lady Mary murmured. Anna's brow furrowed as she watched Lady Mary busily write something down. She wasn't going to make it so obvious that she was looking over the woman's shoulder to see what it was that she was writing, however she couldn't help but wonder if somehow it was connected to the scene she had accidently spied earlier.

"Milady…forgive me, but I—"

"I am writing a message to Capt. Crawley," Lady Mary interrupted. "And I wonder if you would be so kind as to give to him when he returns."

Anna's brow furrowed even further. While she knew she should simply accept the letter and not ask any further questions, at the same time she couldn't help herself. "Wouldn't you rather deliver the message yourself, milady?"

Lady Mary stiffened slightly at the question. "No…no, I…I don't think that's a very good idea," she murmured, more to herself than to Anna, but Anna heard every word.

"Milady, are you alright?" she finally asked, hoping she wouldn't offend by asking her question. She remembered what Miss O'Brien had said to her once, long before the War began; about how they weren't friends, she and her Ladyship's daughters. And yet that hadn't stopped Gwen from becoming close friends with Lady Sybil. And in some ways, Anna felt a similar kinship with Lady Mary.

Lady Mary looked up at Anna, but she didn't seemed surprised or taken aback by the question. Instead, she put on a perfectly beautiful smile and simply answered, "of course!"

Anna bit her lip. She could tell that Lady Mary was lying. But at the same time, she didn't want to push. She felt she had pushed enough, to be honest. "Well…" she began. "I just…I just wanted to say that if you ever needed to…" she paused, not sure exactly how to say what she wanted to say. She wanted Lady Mary to know that she could open up to her, tell her anything that was ailing her. And in the past, Lady Mary had done that. But this whole situation with Capt. Crawley, now back at Downton…perhaps it was too personal?

"Thank you, Anna…"

Anna looked at Lady Mary and saw beneath that stony façade that the eldest Crawley daughter was known for, a look that spoke volumes, a look of thankfulness for the offer, even if she didn't feel she could say anything at the moment. Perhaps Lady Mary needed to concentrate on what she was feeling before she put into words for another person to hear?

"You're welcome, milady," Anna replied, smiling back and taking the scribbled message Lady Mary had hastily written. "I'll see that Capt. Crawley receives your letter when he returns."

Lady Mary smiled and nodded, although the expression on her face was one full of nervousness as she watched Anna place the message in her pocket. Anna noticed the way Lady Mary was looking and quickly assured her, "you can trust me, milady; just as before, anything shared is between the two of us and no other, not even Mr. Bates."

Lady Mary opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it. She looked down at her lap for a moment, and neither one of them spoke. Anna didn't know what to else to say, and so she simply gave a little curtsey and turned to go. But she hadn't gone two steps, before Lady Mary's voice stopped her.

"Do you think there's a point to all this, Anna?"

Anna looked at Lady Mary in confusion. "I…forgive me, I don't understand."

Lady Mary sighed and rose to her feet once again. "We all have our parts to play," Lady Mary continued. "Despite everything that's happened, we continue to go on as we have always done. You continue to work as the Downton head housemaid, you continue to help Sybil, Edith, and myself dress for dinner, and…" she paused, turning her head slightly to gaze out a nearby window. "And I remain my father's eldest daughter, who really has no purpose—other than marriage."

"Milady," Anna protested, but she stopped short as Lady Mary turned back to face her.

"That's my duty, isn't it? That's what my duty has always been. To marry a gentleman, preferably a man with a title and some money, and…continue the peerage, or what's left of it."

Anna didn't really know what to say. She had sometimes wondered what life was like for an earl's daughter. She would be lying to say she hadn't envied watching his Lordship's daughters float about in beautiful gowns while attending or hosting dinners and parties for elegant ladies and handsome gentlemen. But never had she actually paused to look and see what it was that the children of Lord and Lady Grantham had to do. Anna's duties were very clear cut; do your work and do it well. Mrs. Hughes had often told her, long before she had met John Bates, that she had the makings of being a fine housekeeper to a great house. Advancing her career in service, basically; that was Anna's "duty".

Then she met John Bates; met him and fell in love with him. And suddenly the so-called duty she seemed to be destined for had changed.

"If I may be so bold, milady…" Anna began, nibbling her bottom lip before continuing. "The only 'duty' I feel a woman has, is to follow her heart."

Lady Mary stared back at her and Anna couldn't quite read the woman's expression. Had she upset her with her words?

But Lady Mary looked away again, this time down at her feet. "That sounds like sage advice," she murmured at last. "And your heart? It told you to follow Bates?"

Anna smiled. "It told me to be happy; Mr. Bates just happens to be a part of that—a large part of that, actually," she blushed.

Lady Mary returned the smile, and Anna thought she saw a look in her eyes that reflected that envy she once felt, whenever she admired the Crawley girls in their finery. Yet this envy was much deeper, and sadder as well.

"Oh Anna," Lady Mary sighed. "I…I wish it were that simple; to follow my heart as you say and let that be my only duty. But…but there are other obstacles, of course; people who depend on me, people who I feel honor-bound too," she whispered, looking out the window once more. "Promises I made once upon a time, because…because I thought it was the right thing to do…"

Anna swore she saw a tear trickle down Lady Mary's cheek, but before any further attention could be brought to it, Lady Mary quickly wiped it away. "Gracious, I…I don't think food we ate at luncheon agreed with me," she muttered, turning her eyes towards the bed. "I think it would be best that I lie down and rest."

Anna bit her lip but silently nodded her head. She wished she could offer comfort for her friend, say something to ease whatever burden was upon her heart. But didn't know the proper words to say, nor did she want to pry. Perhaps the best thing she could do was truly give Lady Mary the space she desired, and the opportunity to wrestle with her thoughts?

"I'll come back a little later, milady, to see how you are doing."

Lady Mary murmured her thanks, but once again, just before Anna stepped outside, she called out to her one more time. "Perhaps…perhaps later, Anna," she busily wiped at her cheeks, trying to erase any sign of tears. "Perhaps later you can give me some shooting lessons?"

Anna's eyes widened. "Shooting lessons, milady?"

Lady Mary nodded. "Yes; I have a feeling it will be a bit of a battle, convincing Carson to give me those lessons, and…and I don't know when Matthew will be back, so perhaps…?"

"Of course, milady," Anna said with a smile that she prayed was reassuring. "Perhaps when I return later, and you feel your stomach has settled?"

Lady Mary smiled once again, and for the first time upon entering that room, the smile did look to be one of genuine relief and even a little happiness. Anna murmured her goodbyes and stepped out of the room, prepared to go back and check on John before continuing with her duties, when a harsh whisper caught her ear.

"Anna! Anna!"

Anna frowned at the sound of her name being whispered, and she looked around, trying to see who possessed the voice. Then, she watched with large, and somewhat startled eyes, as Sir Richard appeared before her, stepping out from behind the door of a nearby guest room.

"Anna, how is Lady Mary?" he asked, his eyes filled with what was meant to look like care and concern, and yet something about the look didn't put Anna at ease. There was something else in his eyes, and it made his concern seem false.

"She's resting," she answered simply. "She said that luncheon didn't agree with her, so she's lying down."

"Ah, yes, of course," Sir Richard murmured, nodding his head as he spoke. "Yes, she did seem a little pale earlier, so I did wonder…"

Anna's brow furrowed. Did he really mean that? Or was he simply saying this?

"Anna…I know you care very deeply for your mistress…" he began.

Anna swallowed, feeling herself tense a little at his words. She suddenly felt very protective of her friend, and decided to be very careful with whatever she said next.

"I love Lady Mary, as you know," he continued. "I want to make her happy, and…if truth be known, I'm concerned for her."

Anna lifted a brow at this. "Concerned?"

Sir Richard nodded his head. "Yes, and no doubt you are concerned as well."

She was concerned, but she didn't feel that it was appropriate to discuss such things with him.

"I know that…she and Capt. Crawley were once…very close."

Anna felt her spine stiffen at his words. Now she knew for certain this was a most inappropriate topic to discuss.

"I fear that with him being back amongst us again…that…well, that her heart is in danger of being broken once more."

Anna couldn't deny she had thought about this as well, but by no means was comfortable discussing such a thing with Sir Richard Carlisle.

"So I was wondering, if you could keep an eye on Lady Mary for me?"

Anna was startled by this request. "I…" she stammered at first. "I beg your pardon?"

"Keep an eye on Lady Mary," he continued. "Watch over her like the guardian angel I know you are to her," he said with a smile, but it did not put Anna at ease. "…And, tell me what she does."

Her mouth fell open. He wanted her…to spy on Lady Mary for him?

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I—"

"I will make it worth your while, of course," he murmured, and she watched as he withdrew a checkbook from his pocket.

Did he take her for a fool? What good would his checks be if there was no bank to make a deposit? Did he truly think her to be so simple-minded? Did he truly think he could lure her with money into betraying Lady Mary like this?

"Sir, I cannot do what you ask," she stated firmly, trying to look stern. "It's not my place, nor is it right to do." She began to walk past him then, feeling she had said her peace, but she gasped as she suddenly felt his fingers grip her arm.

"I'm doing this for Lady Mary's own good," he explained, his voice low and deep, and there was a dangerous edge to it that caused Anna to shiver. "I know we both don't want her to get hurt, do we?"

Anna clenched her jaw and pulled her arm free from Sir Richard's grasp, looking at him with nervous eyes, fully prepared to scream if he tried to grab her again. "I'm sorry, sir, but my answer is 'no'," she stated once more, and then quickly moved away from him before he had the chance to even reach for her.

_Don't look back, don't look back,_ she kept repeating over and over to herself. She was going to stop at John's room, but she felt it best to retreat downstairs where both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson could be located.

"Anna!"

She should have just kept moving, but right as she was about to disappear down the servant's staircase, she turned back to look at Sir Richard, who was bowing and trying to look apologetic. "I meant no disrespect; I hope we can still be friends?"

She swallowed the cold, nervous lump in her throat. She didn't answer him, she simply continued on her way, not looking back, not leaving him an answer. But she recalled an old saying, _"with friends like these, who needs enemies?"_

Indeed; she would much rather have the friendships of Sarah O'Brien and Thomas Barrow together, than that of Sir Richard Carlisle.

* * *

Daisy nervously moved around the shop, trying not to trip over fallen cans or boxes that littered the floor. Despite the mess, the place seemed far more promising the last two shops that both she and Miss Swire had explored. They had managed to fill one crate with cans and packages, but it was hardly enough to get them through the end of a fortnight.

"I don't like how dark it is in here," Daisy confessed, as she stepped over another box. The thing that frightened her the most, besides seeing a Walker of course, was seeing a Walker's decaying victim. The last time she had seen a dead body had been when they had buried all those officers who had stayed behind to defend Downton. She remembered helping Anna and Ethel dig the mass grave, and she remembered being sick later that day as William and Thomas helped Mr. Carson in carrying the bodies to be buried. The Walkers were truly frightening, but the sight of their victims was even more horrifying to Daisy. Poor souls, twisted in pain, missing pieces of flesh, missing limbs, missing—

"Daisy, are you alright?" Miss Swire asked, noticing how she had to stop and grip a nearby store shelf to keep from fainting.

"Fine," Daisy murmured, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "Sorry, Miss, I…I just felt a bit light-headed."

"It's alright," Miss Swire murmured, offering a kind smile, one that helped put Daisy at ease. She was discovering that in the short time she had gotten to know Miss Swire, that she liked her very much. In some ways, she reminded her of Lady Sybil, although perhaps not as loud and boisterous as Lady Sybil was known to be on occasion. Still, she was kind and very brave, even if it wasn't obvious upon first glance. Whenever the entered a shop, Miss Swire insisted she go first, her rifle ready in case it was needed…but thankfully, a need had yet to arise.

She prayed it would remain that way.

"I hope the others are alright," Daisy found herself murmuring as she began to check several tins to make sure they had no punctures, before putting them in crate at her feet. "Do you…do you think they've found Mr. Branson's brother by now?" she nervously asked. "Only it seems they've been gone for a while, and I would think that if they had found him, they would be back by now—" she stopped herself, realizing she was starting to sound hysterical. She also realized she was speaking quite liberally with this woman who was above her; granted, Miss Swire wasn't as high as his Lord or her Ladyship or any of their daughters, but still, years of working in service had trained her that if she were to speak to people above stairs, you kept your mouth closed until one of them spoke to you. "S-s-sorry," she stammered, and then quickly began went back to her task of gathering items to take back to the house.

"It's alright," Miss Swire kindly reassured. "I understand your worry, no need to apologize for that," she murmured.

Daisy smiled faintly at this, but still knew that she shouldn't speak so much out of turn, no matter how friendly the person seemed. It wasn't her place, and wasn't that something Mr. Carson was always trying to remind them? The importance of maintaining "order"?

"There could be a number of reasons as to why they haven't returned yet," Miss Swire continued, as if trying to put Daisy's worries at ease. "Perhaps Mr. Branson requires special medical attention? Or perhaps he managed to escape and they are looking for him? Or perhaps—"

"Do you think they would be back by now if he were dead?"

Daisy bit her lip as soon as the words had left her lips. _Never interrupt, never!_ She had perhaps broken an even bigger rule than speaking out of turn.

Yet if Miss Swire was upset by her interruption, she didn't show it. "Actually, I think they would be," she answered honestly. "Which must mean he's not."

Daisy nodded her head at the woman's words, trying to find assurance in them, and then went back to her task. _Gather supplies; gather the things you know Mrs. Patmore has been talking about needing. That's why you're here, that's why her Ladyship asked you to go—_

"What is the name of the young fair-haired man?"

Daisy glanced up at Miss Swire and swallowed a somewhat nervous lump in her throat. "William," she answered.

Miss Swire smiled. "William, yes; I imagine that he would come rushing back here as soon as he were able."

Daisy smiled at this, but her smile was uneasy. Yes, William had said he would be back as soon as he could be, but what if something had happened? What if they were under attack? Hadn't someone said that the hospital was crawling with Walkers? What if it were true about the constable's station as well?

Miss Swire must have noticed the distress on her face, because she was quick to speak. "Oh, Daisy, please—don't worry, I'm sure—I'm positive, actually, that everything is alright and that your beau is safe—"

"My beau?" Daisy gasped, looking up at Miss Swire and feeling her cheeks burn with color.

Now it was Miss Swire who looked embarrassed. "Oh gracious, I apologize, did I misspeak? I…I'm sorry, Daisy, I confess, I assumed based on the way I saw William look at you when we parted that—"

Daisy's face was burning even brighter. "We…that is to say that…we're not…not really…" she was stammering again, because the truth was that she was very conflicted when it came to her feelings regarding William. She liked William, liked him very much. And she knew that William was fond of her—after all, he had asked her to give him a picture before he left for the War. And Mrs. Patmore had encouraged her to let William think of the two of them as sweethearts while he was gone. And there was the one time, when William returned on leave, that the subject of "marriage" had come up, but Daisy then made herself extremely busy, not ready to have that conversation, at least not yet.

The truth was she didn't really know what her heart thought of William. Was he more to her than a dear friend? Could she love him? The thought of harm coming to him certainly caused her breathing to become shallow and her skin to become cold. Perhaps she did? Or perhaps that was the present circumstances they had found themselves in, manipulating her emotions?

"Daisy?"

She looked at Miss Swire again, and was surprised to see how…_nervous_…the woman looked.

"Can I…can I ask you something?"

Daisy's eyes widened and she simply nodded her head, pausing in her task to listen to whatever Miss Swire had to say.

"Capt. Crawley—was he…were he and Lady Mary ever engaged?"

Daisy's eyes grew even wider, and she quickly lowered them, wondering exactly how to answer or if she should answer. After all, wasn't that another rule Mr. Carson was always saying? Never gossip about the lives of the family? Of course, this wasn't really gossip, was it? After all, Miss Swire simply wanted to know if Lady Mary and Capt. Crawley were engaged, which was simply a "yes or no" question.

"Oh forgive me," Miss Swire suddenly muttered. "Forgive me, Daisy, it's not my place to pry, and I don't mean to put you in an awkward position."

"No, no, it's alright," Daisy assured. She didn't pause to think why Miss Swire had asked the question. "Um…I know that Capt. Crawley did propose to Lady Mary, but nothing was ever announced. He left Downton shortly after the announcement of the War," she explained.

Now it was Miss Swire's eyes that widened. "She didn't accept him?" she asked with some surprise.

Daisy wasn't sure how to answer that. That had certainly been gossiped about below stairs; the knowledge that Capt. Crawley had in fact proposed to Lady Mary, but all of that had been learned after Capt. Crawley had left. Daisy wasn't sure why Lady Mary hadn't accepted, if that were true; Lady Mary, from what she had seen, always seemed very fond of Mr. Crawley; and because Capt. Crawley was his Lordship's heir, it would make sense that he and Lady Mary would get married. Daisy had always wondered these things herself, but never dared to ask.

"I'm surprised," Miss Swire continued, although her voice was very soft, as if she were talking more to herself.

Daisy didn't really know what else to say, and because she didn't want to break all of Mr. Carson's rules, simply returned to her task of gathering supplies, filling the crate that she carried with more packages and cans to take back to the house.

That was what she was doing, reaching for a can on the back of the shelf, when the Walker grabbed her arm.


	27. Unexpected

_So this is what I call a "meanwhile..." chapter, meaning that while ALL THAT STUFF was happening in Downton village, *this* was happening back at the house. Don't worry, we'll be heading back to the village in the next chapter, but for right now, enjoy some unexpected surprises..._

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Seven_

"**Unexpected"**

The sound of gunshots echoed throughout the air.

In the distance some walking, groaning figures paused and lifted their heads to the sound.

The gunshots were followed by more gunshots.

The figures turned then. Turned towards the sound and began shuffling and dragging their feet towards it.

To any person who was nearby, the sound was simply what it was; a gunshot.

To a hungry Walker, whose hunger could never be sated…it was the dinner bell.

* * *

"Edith?" Cora murmured, standing on the other side of her daughter's bedroom door and lightly tapping, hoping she would open it and speak with her.

No response.

"Edith, darling…" she murmured again, leaning closer to the door, practically pressing her ear to it. She thought she heard the sound of feet shuffling across the floor. "Edith, please…may I come in?"

Another moment of silence passed, but before Cora could open her mouth to repeat the request, she heard Edith's voice finally emerge from the other side.

"I'm not feeling very well, Mama…"

Cora frowned. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, I…I just wish to be left alone."

Cora's frown deepened. "I think that may be part of the problem, dear." She waited for her daughter to answer, but none came. Cora sighed and folded her arms across her chest. "Edith, if you're truly feeling ill, then I'll have to go and fetch Dr. Clarkson to come and see you."

Just then the door opened, but only slightly. Cora tried to peek in, but it was near impossible. However, she was grateful to see Edith's face (well, a sliver of her face) looking back from the other side of the door.

"I don't need to see Dr. Clarkson—"

"Then let me inside, dear."

"Mama—"

"Darling, I haven't seen you all day! You weren't at luncheon and you've spent the entire day in your room—"

"I have not; I was at breakfast this morning—"

"Edith," Cora said in a very stern voice, any trace of good humor gone. "Let me in."

Edith groaned, and then pulled the door open further, finally allowing Cora the opportunity to enter and see her daughter fully. She turned then and stalked back to her bed, flopping down upon it in a rather unladylike manner, but Cora decided to not say anything about it; she should be grateful that her daughter had allowed her to enter. "Darling, what's the matter?"

"Nothing!" Edith groaned. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because you said so yourself that you're not feeling very well; and when O'Brien came to check on you earlier—"

"Mama, I'm fine, alright? I said that because I simply wish to be left alone, that is all!"

Cora only frowned, before taking in her daughter's complexion. She looked a great deal paler; there seemed to be dark circles around her eyes, and her cheeks looked a bit gaunt. She was thinner too, although if truth be told everyone was thinner, as result of their rationed, meager meals, but…while Cora wasn't yet "alarmed" by these changes in her daughter, she was concerned. And Robert was right, of course; Edith's melancholy did seem to be getting worse. Sybil was a "doer"; she couldn't stand being idle, so she would find a task if presented with nothing. And Mary had always excelled in her lessons on "socializing" and playing hostess, even amongst the members of her own family. Plus, Mary had Sir Richard for a companion. But Edith…Edith seemed truly lost.

"I think you've been left alone far too much," Cora finally murmured, her words clearly having an effect, because Edith sat up a little straighter and stared back at her looking somewhat surprised. "In fact, I'm sure of it," Cora sighed. "And that's no one's fault, my dear, but my own."

"Mama—"

"Oh darling, talk to me," Cora sighed, sitting down on the bed next to her daughter and reaching for Edith's hands. "Please, tell me what's on your mind? I know I have been a terrible mother and neglectful of you—"

"Mama, stop it," Edith pulled her hands away, a gesture that in all honesty broke Cora's heart, but she swallowed the emotional lump in her throat and tried to hide the pain. Edith, meanwhile, had risen to her feet and had crossed the room to her window. "I just…I just like to be alone, that's all."

"Yes, but _why?"_ Cora implored. "Tell me _why_ you wish to be left alone to your own thoughts? _What are your thoughts?_ Please, talk to me, dear, I'm worried about you—"

Edith groaned and turned back to face her. "Why are you worried about me _now?"_

Cora was shocked by her daughter's rather cold answer. "I…I beg your pardon?"

Edith swallowed and Cora noticed that she seemed to setting her jaw and lifting her chin, as if willing herself to not cry or lose control of her emotions. It was something Cora had seen Mary develop and perfect, something that her mother-in-law was an expert at doing. But Edith, like Sybil in a sense, wore her emotions on her sleeve—perhaps wore them for the world to see more so than any of her daughters. And Cora could tell that her daughter was hurting. And she hated the fact that she didn't know the reason why.

"Why do you care now?" Edith spoke again, although her words were short and Cora could see the eyes of her daughter beginning to glisten with unshed tears. "I mean, this isn't sudden; this didn't simply happen recently. While you and Granny and Mary sit together, I'm normally left to my own devices."

Cora rose then, but before she could cross the room to where Edith stood, Edith was moving again to another side, putting distance between herself and her mother; a distance that had clearly become a wide chasm over time.

"I'm not that hard to find, Mama; normally you can find me in my usual place, looking at the window—if you cared to look."

Her words were cold, and bitter as well. Cora had nothing to say in response, and her heart was breaking further. Oh gracious, she knew the window with which her daughter referred, she knew her daughter often stood there and gazed outside, and she knew the direction which the window faced. She also knew what was in that direction, and had always wondered if that were the reason Edith looked to that direction.

_"She'll get over it with time,"_ Violet had once assured her, when she expressed her concern over Edith's depression after Sir Anthony had left without proposing or announcing when he would be back after going to war. She had liked Sir Anthony Strallan, he seemed like a wonderful man, and yes, at the time she had intended to match him with Mary, that she obviously could see how disastrous that would have been. No, upon reexamining the matter, Edith was much more suitable for a man like Sir Anthony, and vice versa. And Edith, while indeed quite pretty, had never been as successful in trapping the eye of a young man the way Mary had been. But then again, Edith was perhaps the shyest of her daughters, and had always been enraptured with romantic tales about gentlemen sweeping young ladies off their feet at palace balls. Sir Anthony may have been twice Edith's age, but truly, Cora had noticed and could see that despite the numerical difference, the two of them were very well suited for one another, and she did honestly think they could have made each other happy. So when her daughter had told her that day, long before the War was a twinkle in anyone's eye, that Sir Anthony wanted to ask Edith a "very important question" at the garden party, she was thrilled on her behalf! Two daughters, on the verge of marriage to two very fine gentlemen!

Of course it hadn't gone the way she had hoped. The engagement between Mary and Matthew was never announced, and Matthew left Downton a few days after the garden party to enlist in the army. And like him, so too did Sir Anthony leave, without any explanation. And all this happened while Cora was suffering her own heartbreak, at losing her one and only son.

Her mother-in-law had been wrong, however. Edith hadn't "gotten over" her heartbreak; in fact it was clear that wound had festered, and had gone unchecked, which was entirely Cora's fault. She wanted to believe her mother-in-law was right, because she hoped the same thing for Mary and herself, that they all would find the strength to overcome their very different, but very painful heartbreaks. Yet losing a child, even a child you had never held or met face to face, was a heartbreak Cora doubted she would never overcome. Nor was losing your first love, perhaps.

Well, she had left Edith to battle this heartbreak on her own for far too long. "Darling," she murmured, slowly approaching her, hoping Edith wouldn't bolt out the door, especially since she was standing so close to it. She was about to say something further, however they both jumped at the sudden sound of gunfire, coming from just outside.

"Gracious!" Cora gasped, her hands going to her chest and covering her sudden rapid beating heart.

Edith moved across the room to where her mother stood, both of them now looking out window to see the person responsible for the blast, and both gasped at the figure which they saw.

They weren't the only ones.

"Lord have mercy!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, staring out the window of the kitchen towards the open yard just beyond. Charles Carson had just excited the butler's pantry upon hearing the cook's exclamation. His brow furrowed, wondering what Mrs. Patmore was going on about, when suddenly the crack of a gun filled the outdoors with a mighty thunderclap.

"What on earth…?"

Who was firing a gun? Mrs. Hughes? But as soon as the Scottish woman's name had crossed his mind, she suddenly appeared, coming around the corner and rushing to Mrs. Patmore's side to see whatever it was the cook was seeing. "Good heavens!" gasped, but unlike Mrs. Patmore who looked positively shocked, Mrs. Hughes was…smiling?

"What is it? What's going on? Are we under attack?" Charles asked, looking at both the cook and housekeeper for an explanation. He had reached for the rifle he kept in the butler's pantry, prepared if needs be, to go head first in meeting whatever enemies had come to seize Downton.

But Mrs. Hughes was giggling—GIGGLING! And it seemed that her giggles only increased when she turned to look up at him. "Oh Mr. Carson, put that thing away," she laughed, noticing how he was clutching the rifle, especially as another blast echoed outside.

"What in heaven's name is so amusing to you?" he grunted, squinting his eyes through the somewhat dingy windows to see who was firing outside. "Who is that?" he muttered. "Anna?" Yes, yes, he could make out Anna's profile. She was standing in the yard next to another, offering…instruction? _SHOOTING_ instruction?

Charles looked at both women with a furrowed brow. "Who…who is that?" he asked, still squinting to see. It wasn't Ethel, the person had dark hair. And…it couldn't be Miss O'Brien, she was far too tall, not to mention Miss O'Brien didn't need any instruction, as she already understood how to use…

Charles' face paled as a sudden realization dawned on him.

"Milady!" he all but gasped, quickly moving to the servant's door.

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. "Here we go," she muttered under her breath.

Mrs. Patmore could only laugh, before tugging on the housekeeper's sleeve. "Come on, this should be good!"

Outside, Charles practically stumbled as Lady Mary once again fired the rifle she was holding at some targets that Anna had set up. "Well done, milady!" Anna grinned as Lady Mary managed to hit one of the sour apples the housemaid had set up on a nearby fence post. "That was your third hit!"

Charles heard Anna's words, and his eyes went wide. "Milady!" he called, finally reaching her.

Lady Mary turned and smiled up at the Downton butler. "Ah, did you see me Carson?"

Despite his concern, it was impossible for Charles not to smile back at the eldest Crawley daughter. Yet his smile was small and his expression was one filled with both concern and confusion. "Milady, what are you doing?"

Lady Mary laughed—_laughed!—_at his question, turning and looking at him as if he had just told the grandest joke. "Oh Carson, what does it look like?" she lifted the rifle then, and Charles eyes widened, and he quickly drew his fingers to cover his ears just as she pulled the trigger.

Another apple fell to the ground.

"Four now!" Lady Mary said with pride.

Anna was smiling and nodding her head. "She's very good, Mr. Carson," Anna told the butler.

"I should be," Lady Mary sighed with a bit of haughtiness. "Remember, I used to participate in Papa's shooting parties; it's just been so long since I held a proper gun—"

"Milady, please," Charles had to interrupt, he was so confused and he wasn't sure if he could manage watching her reload the rifle and shoot another apple, at least not until he had some answers. "_Why_ are doing this?"

Lady Mary turned her attention back to him and for the first time since finding her out here, she was frowning. "Why? I should the answer to that is obvious," she started to lift the rifle again, but Charles reached out and placed his hand atop the barrel, knowing it was a gesture she would not approve of, but right now he didn't care. He was concerned for her safety above all things, always had been. He had dedicated his life to serving the Crawley family, and after the chaos arrived, he had now dedicated it to protecting them, especially his Lordship and Ladyship's daughters.

"Please humor me, milady," he offered, trying to force a smile. "It's not so obvious to me, I'm afraid."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes grumbled just over his shoulder. "If Lady Mary wants to perfect her skills with shooting and handling a gun, there's nothing wrong with that!"

Charles frowned at the housekeeper. It wasn't that he didn't think Lady Mary was incapable of handling a rifle, certainly not. As she had said so herself, she was an excellent shooter…when it came to country sports. It was the implication that she was "retraining herself in handling a gun" for a much darker and different purpose that he didn't approve of.

"I simply have been giving the matter some thought," Lady Mary began. "And have basically changed my mind about the whole matter; I think perhaps it is rather wise that all the women here know how to shoot as well as the men." With that, she lifted the rifle once again and fired, hitting a fifth apple off the post.

"I don't think we'll have to worry about any Walkers invading this house if Lady Mary is on our side," Mrs. Patmore chuckled.

Charles, however, frowned. "No 'Walkers' as we have come to call them, will ever invade this house! Not so long as there is air in my lungs!" he huffed.

Mrs. Hughes looked up at the butler with weary eyes. "Mr. Carson, no one is saying that you're incapable—"

"This is Capt. Crawley's meddling," Charles muttered. Capt. Crawley had come back to this house and had tipped everything off balance. Now he was running around the village, with a crazed Irish hooligan, taking two servants away from their work, and possibly endangering the life of Lady Sybil. And all because he insisted that "things needed to change".

"No, this is not Capt. Crawley's meddling," Lady Mary said with some finality to her voice. She handed the rifle to Anna and turned to face the butler head on. "This is _my_ decision completely. Since when I have allowed a man to influence my decisions?" she asked, arching a perfectly dark eyebrow.

Charles didn't mean to insult her, and the thought that he may have, offended him deeply. However, his protest over the entire matter was simply because he couldn't stand the idea seeing her hurt, let alone having to…to fight those awful things. Even weeks after it had taken place, he still had nightmares about what had happened in the orchard to Lady Edith and Lady Sybil. He had one task, one charge, and that was to see to their protection. He would gladly lay down his life for any of them, and when the time came for him to defend them…he had failed.

He would never admit it, not even to Mrs. Hughes who truly was the person he was closest to in this entire place, but…thank God for Mr. Branson.

Yes, Charles didn't trust the Irishman, especially after the way he had attacked Thomas in the library earlier that afternoon, yet if the man hadn't arrived when he did, Lady Sybil might—

Charles shuddered at the thought. And he shuddered again at the thought of Lady Mary, having to defend all of them, having to defend him! No…no, he would never allow it. No one was ever going to defend him.

And would not fail anyone ever again, so help him.

"Mary!"

Everyone turned to see her Ladyship rushing towards all of them, and Charles prayed that perhaps she would be able to help Lady Mary see how unnecessary it was for her to do all this when he was fully capable of seeing to her protection. Yet that hope quickly died when he saw the excited smile on the Countess' face. "Oh darling, I saw it all from upstairs!" her Ladyship all but gushed, taking Lady Mary's hands in hers and giving them a proud, affectionate squeeze. "You remind me of Annie Oakley!"

Lady Mary laughed and shook her head. "Oh Mama, it was simply five apples; I used to be much better, and those targets were birds—"

"Oh, let a mother gush," her Ladyship muttered, before grinning and squeezing her hands again. "And don't speak as if what you did is no achievement. If I tried to fire that thing, the bullets would be nowhere near that fence!"

Lady Mary nodded her head, clearly agreeing with her mother on this. "Perhaps you should practice too?"

Charles' eyes widened even further and he felt all the blood drain from his face at the suggestion.

"No, no, I don't think so," her Ladyship laughed softly. "There's no need, really; not when I have O'Brien."

Charles looked to see Miss O'Brien join the rest of them now, who was beaming with pride back at her Ladyship, but who also looked humbly down at the ground. Charles' frown only grew. Because of her duty to seeing to her Ladyship, Miss O'Brien had been one of the few women at Downton to be trained in handling a gun. It was the only exception Charles could conceive when it came to who amongst the women servants should have the knowledge. He didn't understand that if her Ladyship could be perfectly content with allowing Miss O'Brien to look after and protect her…why couldn't Lady Mary do the same with him? Why couldn't any of the Crawley daughters? Or Els—_Mrs. Hughes_, for that matter?

"Perhaps…Edith?" her Ladyship called over her shoulder to the middle Crawley sister who was standing back a few paces. "Edith, why don't you try shooting as well?"

Charles groaned; he was clearly outnumbered by everyone here. Where was his Lordship? Or Sir Richard for that matter? Surely they would support him and see all of this as being…unnecessary.

Lady Mary lifted a brow at her mother's suggestion. "Are you sure that's wise, Mama? Giving Edith a gun?" she turned her gaze to Lady Edith then. "I don't want to be mistaken for the target."

Lady Edith gave her sister a sarcastic smile. "You're big enough," she muttered under her breath.

The humor on Lady Mary's face vanished completely. But before she could utter a retort, her Ladyship stepped in. "Now is not the time to throw insults at each other," she said very sternly, not caring that there was a small audience around them. Charles gave a stern look to the women there, not to speak or repeat a word of this to anyone. Not that he really had to worry about such things. Anna was always good about not gossiping and the only person Mrs. Patmore would gossip to was Mrs. Hughes. As for Elsie, he knew he could always count on her to display nothing but the upmost decorum.

"I am serious, girls," her Ladyship continued. "Now is not the time for childish banter or tantrums, certainly not in the world which we face now." She gave both daughters a stern look, daring them to argue with her. Charles couldn't deny he was surprised by this display of passionate emotion from her Ladyship. Not that her Ladyship had never spoken like this; after all, she was an American. Yet there was something in her voice, a tone in which she spoke, a conviction, a change; something in many ways reminiscent to her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess.

The two Crawley sisters mumbled "yes Mama," before turning their backs on each other. Her Ladyship sighed, but seemed to accept the "truce" between Lady Mary and Lady Edith, before turning to him and saying, "Carson, I trust that you will help in overseeing their training?"

"Mama!" Lady Mary groaned. "I hardly need training; I know how to handle a gun!"

Lady Edith bristled at this. "Are you implying that I don't?"

Lady Mary rolled her eyes. "Did I say that? Did I speak your name at all? No, so stop trying to cause trouble," she muttered.

"Girls, enough!" her Ladyship warned. She then turned her eyes once again to the butler. "Please, Carson, I know I can depend on you?"

His chest swelled then at her words. He may not like the idea of any of Crawley girls having to learn how to defend themselves, because he didn't like the idea of any of them being in danger where the need would arise.

Yet by that same token, he had made a promise to serve the Crawley family. And despite his feelings on the matter, he would serve them by seeing that Lady Mary and Lady Edith were more than capable of defending themselves. He took great pride in his service. Perhaps, as much as he was reluctant to admit it, perhaps that meant…evolving and accepting _some_ changes?

But only some, of course.

"Yes, milady," he said with a bow of his head.

Her Ladyship smiled, thanking him softly, before turning and looking upon both her daughters. "Now mind Carson and listen to him; and please my dears, no fighting?"

"Yes, Mama, of course," Lady Mary murmured, putting on a smile for her mother. Lady Edith looked hesitant, as if she didn't really want to be there, but she nodded her head and forced a smile, which caused her Ladyship to reach out and take Lady Edith's hands in hers and give them an affectionate squeeze.

"O'Brien," her Ladyship sighed. "It is a lovely spring day; I think I would like to take a turn around the grounds."

Charles looked at the lady's maid, his eyes wide with concern. He then turned back to her Ladyship. "Are you sure that's wise, milady?"

"Oh Carson, I'll be fine; in fact, I think I spend far too much time locked away in that house, anyway. I think a walk will do me some good, and besides," she turned to her lady's maid again. "O'Brien will be with me, I'll be fine."

It was now Miss O'Brien's turn to stand a little taller and straighter. "I'll see that no harm comes to you, milady, I promise."

"See that you do," Charles muttered under his breath.

Miss O'Brien turned to him and gave him a cold look. "Always," she practically growled.

"Well, we best be getting back to work then," Mrs. Hughes announced to Mrs. Patmore and Anna. "Best leave Mr. Carson to his charges."

Charles gave the housekeeper a look, but she only smiled at him, before putting her hands on both the Downton cook and housemaid to lead them back inside. Her Ladyship and Miss O'Brien turned as well, but heading away from the house, towards the gardens, her Ladyship smiling at her daughters, while Miss O'Brien gripped of all things, a crossbow. A crossbow! The woman had been taught how to shoot by Mr. Bates, a trained military man, and yet she preferred a crossbow. Well, at least it was quieter, he supposed.

Overhead, looking out over the yard where his daughters stood with the Downton butler, Robert watched with some trepidation. When he had made his reluctant agreement with Matthew, it was mainly to grant permission that the female members of staff be trained in the art of defense…_not_ his own daughters. Like Carson, Robert Crawley didn't like the idea that any member of his family would ever be placed in such a situation where the need arose that they would have to fight off a hungry monster. And he knew, deep in his heart, that the entire reason he had pushed the "necessity" for such skills, as his wife seemed to see it, out of his mind was because he had fallen prey to old childish notion that "if you can't see the problem, it doesn't exist".

Yet perhaps Cora was right. Perhaps Matthew was right. Perhaps that voice in the back of his head that he constantly tried to suppress was right.

Perhaps this was a reality he had to face, one that he couldn't pretend not to see? He just hated the thought that he wasn't even powerful enough to provide protection for his own daughters, let alone his entire staff.

His eyes drifted then to Cora, who was starting to walk down one of the winding garden paths that wove around the house. His frown deepened at this, but he was grateful that O'Brien was at least with her. He knew he could depend on the lady's maid to seeing to his wife's protection.

He sighed, remembering some of the harsh words that were exchanged between him and Cora after Matthew had left. He didn't like that Sybil had gone with the rescue party for Branson's brother, he didn't like it one bit. His youngest could be quite impulsive, and seemed to rush into danger at times. He still remembered the horrid night all those years ago, when she had been injured upon sneaking out to some political rally in Ripon. Did she not have any understanding of the consequences that her actions might face? And yet…Cora was right, Sybil was a very good and capable nurse, and someone with medical training needed to go with Matthew; he just wished it had been Dr. Clarkson instead.

The very man was sitting at a desk in a corner of the library, making furious notes based on the various spices he had found in the store cupboard below stairs. Robert had no idea what the doctor was trying to learn, nor did he really wish to ask. In all honesty, he was upset with Clarkson for simply not being present when Sybil volunteered to go with Matthew. He felt it best to avoid any conversation with the man and leave him to whatever work he was trying to do.

"So much for tradition," a voice sighed next to him.

Robert turned to look at his mother, who had risen from her usual chair to stand beside him. "To what tradition are you referring?"

"The tradition where a man plays the part of soldier," the Dowager Countess sighed, leaning her weight on her cane. "But, I suppose it was only a matter of time; once O'Brien and Anna were trained in the art of combat, it wouldn't be so long before the others would want the training."

"Or before it became necessary," Robert sighed, his eyes returning to the window and watching as Carson tried to help Edith in properly holding a rifle. Mary was the only one of his daughters that truly seemed to excel at shooting, but then she had always shown a great deal more interest in the hunt than his other two.

"Oh, so you think it's necessary now?" his mother asked.

Robert sighed. "I honestly don't know what to think anymore, Mama. I just know I'm weary of fighting this battle; perhaps I should only focus on battles with monsters than battles with my own family…" his eyes once again followed Cora's retreating figure. Soon she would be around the bend and he wouldn't be able to see her.

"Sadly, those are battles we must face a great deal more often," she sighed.

Perhaps so. Still, he was weary of them.

"Well, they're in good hands with Carson," his mother went on, turning to sit in a different chair, one near the window where he looked.

Robert nodded his head in agreement. Perhaps he should brush up on his shooting as well?

"Where is Sir Richard?" his mother asked, surprising him slightly by her question.

Robert frowned. "I'm not sure; I haven't seen him since that debacle after luncheon. He wasn't in the hall when we were arguing about who should go to the village."

The Dowager Countess made a noise that sounded like one of disapproval, but she didn't add or say anything further, other than, "Well, no doubt he'll show up when he's ready to make an appearance," she sighed.

Once again, Robert nodded his head. He watched as Cora finally disappeared around the bend and was completely out of his eyesight. His mind quickly reeled back to those harsh words they had exchanged outside the house. "Mama…" he began, and then glanced over his shoulder. Dr. Clarkson had his nose buried in a book, and was once again, furiously taking notes. Robert lowered his voice before continuing. "Are you worried about Mary?"

His mother turned and looked at him with surprise. "Mary?" she gasped, and then remembered that the doctor was only so many feet away, and so like her son, also lowered her voice. "Why, is something wrong?"

Robert quickly shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that, simply…Cora said something; mentioned she was worried about Mary—and like you, I was completely surprised and flabbergasted by the idea."

His mother lifted a brow at this. "The plot thickens," she murmured. "To be honest, when it comes to any of my granddaughters, the one I worry the most about is the one that is running around the village as we speak with the new chauffeur whose brother apparently likes to torture footmen."

Robert groaned; his thoughts exactly.

"But I am intrigued as to why Cora would raise such a worry," she continued. "What did she mean? Why is she worried about Mary? Of all of them, Mary is the one I would think you should least worry about."

Robert sighed. "She's worried that…that Matthew will…make things 'complicated' for Mary; that he'll 'confuse' her." He shook his head even before he had finished the sentence. Mary knew her own mind; she had always made that abundantly clear to him in the past. He knew she cared for Matthew, of course, they all did; and he knew that once upon a time…she loved him. Or so he believed (although for the life of him, he had no idea why the two of them had not gone through with their engagement; it was as if it had stopped before it could even start). But his eldest daughter was not one to allow herself to be "carried away" on a whim. She was careful and always had been. She guarded her heart, and upheld practicality over everything else. That was certainly how she spoke of Sir Richard, that he was the practical choice, a man that would suit her tastes very well and whose money and influence in London society would not only elevate the family, but also offer her and any children that they would have, a fine, comfortable living where they would want for nothing. It was perfect, so she said; it made sense.

Indeed, of all his daughters, Mary was the most "English", or perhaps to better put it, the perfect replica of what a young woman of their world should be. And yes, as time went on, he had grown to…tolerate Sir Richard.

But he wasn't Matthew. And Robert had grown very fond of Matthew, the son whom he never had.

Robert's frown deepened. "Perhaps Cora got it all wrong; perhaps _I'm_ the one who is confused," he sighed. He was just coming around to accepting the match between his daughter and Sir Richard, when Matthew suddenly returned back from the dead. Now he found himself conflicted again, because he couldn't deny there was a part of him that would be absolutely delighted if Mary announced that she would marry Matthew instead.

Alright, perhaps not simply a part of him, but a majority of him.

His mother was being unusually quiet. He turned to her with lifted brows, waiting for her comments on the matter.

"Well don't look at me," she said with a weary laugh. "I think Cora makes an excellent point."

Robert groaned. "You agree with her?"

His mother made a rather unladylike snort. "There are only so many things I see eye to eye and agree with my daughter-in-law about, Robert; and this isn't one of those things. Mary knows her mind, Mary is not the sort to frivolously toss aside her duties or responsibilities…" her voice grew softer "…even if that includes marrying Sir Richard," she muttered. "However, I wouldn't ignore Cora's worries, either. Perhaps it is Matthew we should watch; after all, he's returned to this house without any connections of the sort Mary has."

Robert knew his mother was referring to the fact that Mary was engaged whereas Matthew had no fiancée or sweetheart. She made a very good point there; not that he would assume Matthew would purposefully try to destroy Mary's engagement, but he could see the poor lad becoming heartbroken in having to watch and observe the two of them.

"What about that girl, the one who arrived the other day, who returned with Matthew and who apparently we are housing," his mother murmured.

"Miss Swire—Lavinia," Robert answered. "She helped Matthew, if you recall, just after he awoke in the hospital."

His mother nodded her head. "Yes…such circumstances of course can…bring people closer, completely by accident."

Robert frowned. Was his mother suggesting that Matthew and Lavinia were…?

"She is a small, pale thing," his mother continued. "Pretty, but not necessarily striking like a Crawley girl."

"Yes, thank you for that, Mama," Robert groaned. Perhaps Cora was right? Perhaps he didn't understand women? He certainly didn't understand why his mother was saying these things now, or the purpose to which she spoke them.

He turned his attentions once again to the image of two of his daughters, both taking turns firing a rifle. Mary was excelling, as he knew she would in this task, whereas Edith was having some struggles. However, he was pleased to see that they weren't bickering, nor did Carson look ready to burst a blood vessel. Yes, he had no doubt that with the butler's help, his daughters would continue to become excellent marksmen, and be able to completely fend for themselves, if danger were to arise.

He just prayed that that day wouldn't happen.

* * *

Her Lady was busy looking at the flowers that surrounded the garden path, smiling and every so often reaching out and running her fingers across a petal or two, while she, Sarah O'Brien, was busy scanning the area around them, keeping a watchful eye for any Walkers that would stumble across their path.

"I'm glad I did this, O'Brien," Her Lady sighed, after pausing to sniff a flower.

Sarah glanced towards her. "It is a beautiful day, milady." It always brought a smile to her face to hear Her Lady laugh, even if it was a soft one like this.

"Yes, yes, it is," Her Lady assured. "But that's not entirely what I meant—OH!" she gasped when another loud blast of gunfire echoed in the air, causing birds to fly about and scatter. "Gracious, I suppose I should get used to that sound," she chuckled to herself. "At least they're not fighting, or at least I can't hear them if they are."

Sarah smiled softly at this. "What did you mean, milady?" She was curious about her mistress' words.

"Simply that I'm glad I spoke to Edith—although it wasn't perfect; oh _far_ from perfect, but I'm glad I got her out of her room and managed to convince her to practice shooting with Carson and her sister," she explained.

"Lady Edith has seemed rather melancholy, or so I've observed," Sarah added.

Her Lady nodded her head sadly at this. "Yes, and I'm afraid I've been neglectful in my duties as a mother."

Sarah turned her attention entirely back to Her Lady upon hearing these words. "No, milady, that's not possible—"

"Oh but it is, O'Brien, it is," she groaned. "And not just Lady Edith, although I think I've done the most damage to her with my neglect, but to all my daughters. Sybil is clearly aching for…equality and a chance to prove something; I think that's why she's been so adamant in learning how to shoot and defend herself. And Mary, oh O'Brien, I worry about Mary; I worry that now that Matthew—Capt. Crawley," she corrected. "I worry that now that he's back, tensions will become extremely high and she may find herself caught between two men," she groaned and shook her head in sadness. "And poor Edith; she's been suffering from a broken heart all this time, but I failed to notice because during the War, I was so preoccupied in comforting Mary when Isobel stopped receiving letters, and then when William returned to tell us that he was dead, or so he thought…" she sighed and shook her head. "No wonder Edith said what she said; about asking me _why_ _now_ am I asking these questions in regards to her wellbeing."

"You're a good mother, milady, one of the finest," Sarah insisted. She wasn't just saying that, she believed it with all her heart. Compared to other women of Her Lady's class, the present Countess of Grantham was one of the warmest women she had encountered, especially when it came to her children. Once upon a time, Sarah would have said it was because she was American, but she knew that wasn't the reason: it was because of the person that she was.

Her Lady smiled at her, a look of thankfulness. Sarah smiled back, but her heart swelled with pity, as well as regret.

She remembered Her Lady weeping for days after losing her son; the son she would have had if she hadn't…

Sarah turned her face away before tears could betray her. Redemption was a long, weary road, one that Sarah O'Brien had been traveling for years, and that she doubted ever came to an end.

"Well, perhaps by showing them my support I'm doing a better job," Her Lady sighed, clearly not having noticed Sarah's sudden moment of distress. That was fine, she was glad. In the past such ignorance would have annoyed her greatly, but not anymore. Sarah O'Brien had lost all rights to ever be annoyed with Her Lady after what happened all those years ago.

"And I know I'll be able to sleep much better at night, knowing that they can defend themsel—" her words were cut off by the sudden emergence of a Walker, that came around a passing tree, reaching forth and grabbing Her Lady by the shoulder.

"MILADY!" Sarah cried, quickly lifting the crossbow which she held at the beast's head, but the creature had pulled Her Lady in front of it, and towards its slobbering mouth; there was no way she could fire without hitting Her Lady, so she did the only other thing she could. With a roar, she charged forward, using the butt of the crossbow to slam into the monster's face. "LET HER GO!" she all but screamed with rage, hitting the Walker in the jaw just before its teeth closed around Her Lady's flesh.

The action caused the Walker's head to whip back, sending some of those teeth flying, but it didn't let go of Her Lady, who was gasping and crying for freedom from the beast. Sarah aimed her crossbow at the Walker's head and without a moment's hesitation, fired into its eye, achieving the goal of killing the damned thing.

The sleeve of Her Lady's dress was tangled in the creature's fingers. She was trying to scramble away from the now dead beast, but its hold still wouldn't let go. "Get it off me, GET IT OFF ME!" Her Lady was practically screaming in hysterics.

"Hold on, milady, hold on!" Sarah tried to reassure, falling to her knees to untangle the threads of Her Lady's blouse from the dead Walker's nails.

However another crashing sound was heard and this time when Sarah looked up, she saw three more Walkers stumble from beyond the trees and were heading straight towards them.

"O'Brien!" Her Lady cried, and Sarah quickly leapt to her feet, reloading her crossbow and aiming it the closest Walker, firing at will and hitting the beast in the head. She was now trying desperately to reload the bow, but in her haste, she dropped the arrow, and Her Lady screamed as a Walker came charging towards the lady's maid. "O'BRIEN LOOK OUT!"

Sarah turned and once again swung the butt of the crossbow at the oncoming creature, but like the last one, it didn't go down, but merely stumbled backwards. Sarah tried to reload another arrow into her crossbow, but the Walker was back, ready to attack before she had the chance to lift and raise the weapon.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" Her Lady cried, reaching down and throwing rocks, anything really that she could get her hands on, at the Walker's head. The actions had little impact on the Walker that was fighting Sarah, but it did bring about the attention of the third Walker, which fell to its knees upon reaching Her Lady. Another scream ripped through the hair, as Her Lady tried to crawl away before her newest attacker could grab a hold of her ankles. Sarah struggled against her own attacker, trying desperately to fight it off so she could come to Her Lady's rescue, but the creature—a man once, and from the look of him, a large farmer—was very strong, and like all Walkers, desperately hungry.

The Walker was leaning close, trying to bite her, its rotting breath and even worse, its rotting mouth, was chomping at the air, trying to chomp at her skin.

And then suddenly, out of the blue…the Walker was pulled away from her.

Pulled away…by two men in army uniforms?

The two men who had suddenly come out of nowhere to her rescue, pulled the large Walker away, each gripping the monster's muscular arms, each snarling and groaning as they tried to hold fast and firm to the struggling monster.

"ARE YOU DONE?" one of the men shouted, and Sarah quickly realized he wasn't talking to the man who was helping him hold firm to the Walker, but to…another officer?

Her head whipped to where Her Lady was lying, and let out a sigh of relief as she saw the officer withdraw her fallen arrow from the monster's head, letting it fall and slump practically at Her Lady's trembling feet. Sarah turned back to the Walker her two rescuers were holding, and without another hesitation, lifted her crossbow and fired, the arrow piercing right through its head.

"Wow…" muttered one of the officers, but Sarah didn't care. She fell to her knees and quickly began to untangle the first attacking Walker's fingers from Her Lady's sleeve, before kicking the other dead Walker away with her shoe. Her Lady gasped, finally free from her attackers, and reached forward, clutching at Sarah, her body shaking with sobs from the nightmare she had just survived.

"It's alright, milady, it's alright," Sarah murmured over and over, running her fingers through Her Lady's hair, trying to calm her, even though her heart was racing a mile a second too. And it wasn't alright, of course. They had nearly been killed—_may have been_ killed, if these strangers hadn't—

The officers!

Sarah turned and looked at the three men, who by now were kicking the dead Walker, a once farmer, away from them in disgust. They were wiping their hands on their trousers when another crashing sound could be heard, and all three officers immediately tensed, looking ready to fight, but much to Sarah's bewilderment—didn't even have weapons!

Thankfully, the crashing sound wasn't another Walker…but none other than Charles Carson himself.

"GOOD GOD!" Mr. Carson gasped, taking in all the carnage before him. "How…what on earth…WHO?" he turned and looked at the three officers. Sarah's eyes flew to them as well, but…while they looked familiar, she couldn't put her finger on why they looked so familiar. Was it possible they were former officers who had convalesced at the house during the War?

"Mama! Mama!"

Her Lady sat up and reached for her two daughters who had come running after hearing their mother's scream for help. They fell to their knees in front of their mother, sobbing and hugging her tightly, any trace of sibling rivalry long gone.

And Her Lady thought she wasn't a good mother.

"Oh thank God, Mama, thank God," Lady Mary gasped. She lifted her eyes to Sarah's then, and asked, "What happened? We heard screaming, and…" her voice and trailed off, and Sarah turned to see that Lady Mary was also staring at the three officers. "Oh gracious…" Lady Mary all but whispered as she stared at the men.

Sarah turned her head back to the officers…and noticed how one, his face hidden behind a beard, and yet his eyes looked piercing and familiar…took a step forward and offered a small bow. "Lady Mary," he murmured.

"Good heavens!" Lady Mary gasped, scrambling to her feet, her eyes never leaving the officer's face. "I…I can't believe it!"

"Believe what?" Lady Edith asked, and she turned to see what it was that had her sister gasping…until she two was also gasping.

The officer smiled now at Lady Edith, and offered her the same bow he had shown Lady Mary.

"EVELYN!" both girls all but gasped in unison.

Her Lady stirred and looked up at the man with new eyes. Evelyn? Sarah only knew of one person with such a name and that was—

"Evelyn Napier?" Her Lady gasped in surprise.

Mr. Napier smiled and bowed for a third time. "Lady Grantham," he extended a hand, and quickly helped both Her Lady and Lady Edith to their feet, while Sarah was left to rise on her own. Still, she remembered Mr. Napier, or remembered that he had come to the house with that idiot Turk who had died while sleeping there.

"I…I can't believe it!" Lady Mary repeated from before. "What…how…?"

Mr. Napier simply smiled. "All will be revealed in good time," he chuckled. "But first, let me introduce my companions," he turned to the other two officers who were standing just behind him. "You don't know Major Charles Bryant," he pointed to one officer who gave a small bow and a charming smile. "But I do believe you're familiar with—"

"Oh!" Lady Edith gasped, realizing suddenly who the tall, dark haired officer was that grinning back at them. "Larry? Larry Grey?"

* * *

_BOOM! Surprise! Ooohhh dear, what will certain people make of this when they return? ;o)_

_THANKS FOR READING! Please leave a comment!_


	28. Heroic

_GOOD NEWS! You will see *TWO* more updates between now and the end of April for this story! I'm dedicating all my update time to *this* story!_

_Bad news..."Downton Abbey & Zombies" will be going on a brief hiatus during the month of May :o( *hiding before you send Walkers to attack* Sorry fans, it's only to work/concentrate on finishing another story of mine, but the hiatus, while it seems long, will ONLY be during the month of May; come June, there will be a NEW CHAPTER, I promise!_

_But in the meantime, A LOT is going to happen in chapters 28-30; a startling revelation and shocking discovery will be made, a forbidden affair will begin, two characters will kiss, two characters will marry, and one character...will die. AND ALL THAT BEGINS HERE! So without further ado...OH! and **a quick shout out to magfreak**, who became a fan of this story and said she was *dying* for an update; this is dedicated to you! Hope you (and some of my other S/T pals) like *those* moments here ;o) NOW WITHOUT FURTHER ADO..._

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Eight_

"**Heroic"**

The tunnel was dark. Extremely dark. Even with the candle that William was holding, they could barely see more than a few feet in front of them.

Matthew brought up the rear of the group, which meant he was struggling with seeing what was in front of him the most. Squinting and muttering curses as his feet stumbled slightly every so often over a crack on the ground. He only had so many matches left, and as tempting as it was to light one to try and to see for himself where he was going, he knew he should conserve the resources that they had. _If only I had my torch,_ he thought for tenth time since they had entered the tunnel. But as far as he knew, it was lying back in some trench in France.

William led the way, with Tom directly behind him. Sybil had begun to follow William into the tunnel, but Tom had purposefully pushed himself in front of her, which led to more mutterings between the two.

Tom insisted it was because he wanted to be the familiar face that Kieran saw when they came upon him. Sybil, however, argued it was because he didn't think that she was capable of handling herself, even though she had proved herself when they were under attack at the petrol station. As before, the two began arguing again, causing Matthew to roll his eyes in annoyance. Honestly, they both sounded like an old, married couple. He even threatened to put himself between the both of them, separating the two as one would separate two petulant children—but Tom suddenly sobered up from his irritation, and told Matthew that he didn't want Sybil at the end, in case a Walker tried to attack from the rear. He would go to the back if needs be—and this "declaration" seemed to sober Sybil up as well. Still, the tension between the two was incredibly thick, and Matthew just prayed they would soon be out of the small, dark space.

"Woah!" William gasped, practically slipping over something slick.

"What? What is it?" Sybil asked, trying to peek over Tom's shoulder, who had reached out to steady William.

"Something…something on the ground," William murmured, casting the light of the dwindling candle down towards their feet.

A large fat rat with beady red eyes looked up at them and hissed, and dropping the fragment of a broken, bloody bone from its teeth.

Sybil let out a loud gasp, her hand flying to her mouth to keep herself from screaming. She leapt back, reaching out and clinging to Tom, who quickly stepped forward and made a threatening kicking motion to the creature. "Get out of here!" Tom hissed back, his boot causing the creature to finally scamper away.

Matthew noticed how Sybil was gasping and trembling, and had flattened herself as much as she could against the wall. "Sybil?" he whispered. Concern was all over his face at the way she was breathing. "Sybil, are you alright?"

"She's terrified of the things," Tom explained, turning to her and carefully putting his hands on her shoulders. "It's gone, Sybil; it's alright, open your eyes…it's gone, I promise…"

Matthew watched as the Irishman tried to calm his cousin down. Despite the darkness that surrounded them, he could see in the flickering candlelight the way her skin had turned ashen white. When you compared the beady-eyed creature with the monsters that he had seen in London, the fear in some ways seemed so ludicrous. But fear was fear, and it affected everyone differently. And truly, it seemed that Tom was having far more success in reaching out to Sybil in this panicked state than anyone else, because her eyes fluttered open slightly, and she reached forward, pressing her palms against the Irishman's chest to steady herself, her breathing trying to match the movements of his chest.

Matthew suddenly felt rather embarrassed, as if he were intruding on something very personal and private. He turned his eyes to William then, who was glancing nervously back and forth from Sybil to the ground at their feet. His brow furrowed as he looked at the young private. "What is it, Mason?"

William seemed surprised that he had been addressed, and swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, before glancing back down at the ground. "Just…well…look, sir."

Matthew followed William's eyes to where the rat had been, thinking William was referring to the bone (or part of a bone) the creature had been holding in its teeth when they stumbled upon it. But no, it was much worse.

His eyes widened as he took in the amount of blood that lay at their feet. It was smeared all along the ground and part of the wall.

…And it looked fresh.

"Good God…" Matthew murmured in horror as he took in the sight.

Sybil's breathing had finally managed to resume a normal pattern once again, and she opened her eyes to see what the other men had been referring to. "What…what is it?"

But before anyone could say anything further, a sound was heard in the distance…somewhere behind them.

Something large…with heavy breathing…

"We need to go," Matthew hissed through clenched teeth, his grip tightening on the rifle. "Mason, get us out of here, NOW!"

"Sybil?"

She focused on Tom, who was still holding her shoulders and looking intensely into her eyes.

Matthew glanced behind his shoulder. "Sybil, we can't stand around—"

"Don't rush her!" Tom growled. The look he gave Matthew actually chilled him more than the strange sounds coming from behind him.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she reassured, forcing a little smile. "Truly, I am, but Matthew's right." Tom didn't look so convinced, but her hands, which were still resting against his chest, moved up to his shoulders and squeezed them as a means to assure him. "I'm fine."

Tom sighed, nodded his head at last before glancing at Matthew. He nodded at him too, before turning and following William who was doing his best to lead the way. Matthew stayed close behind Sybil, the rifle aimed and ready, prepared to turn and do battle with anything that tried to come up behind them.

The noise continued…and now he swore he heard the sound of shuffling feet.

…Several pairs of shuffling feet.

"There's more blood!" William explained as they moved. "Not as much as back there, but…but I think it's Mr. Branson's!"

Tom muttered something under his breath, something in a language Matthew didn't understand. But he understood the tone in which that word was used, and he didn't have to see Tom's face to know the worry that filled his friend's eyes. It was similar to the worry that he himself was feeling right now in his heart, although directed at a different person.

_Dear God, don't let me die down here, not after everything that's happened—not after being reunited with her._

Mary.

The touch, the taste of her lips still lingered. Should he have kissed her? Should he have given in to the desire he had been feeling ever since he had returned, ever since he had woken up? She belonged to another now, she—

No, no, Mary Crawley belonged to no man, he learned that long ago.

Mary would always be her own person, she would always march to the beat of her own drum, and as infuriating as he sometimes found her stubborn spirit and pride to be, God help him, he loved and admired her for it.

And he knew that was what angered him the most about Sir Richard Carlisle. The man was crushing Mary's spirit. Couldn't Robert or Cora see that? Couldn't _Mary_ see that? Good God, what sort of hold did the man have over her? She deserved someone better than that piece of slime; she deserved someone better than himself, to be sure!

_Oh God, I shouldn't have left; I should have come back, I should have fought for her, I should have proven myself to her, be the Perseus she wanted! But I let my own damn pride get in the way—_

"I SEE SOMETHING!"

William's voice ripped through his thoughts, and Matthew glanced one last time behind his shoulder at the darkness that filled the tunnel's unending void. The sounds they had heard earlier seemed to have quieted, but Matthew knew he wouldn't be able to relax until they were out of there and above ground once more.

No…he wouldn't be able to relax until they were back at Downton, and he could see Mary again.

And speak to her; we can't just forget about that kiss, we can't just pretend it didn't happen.

"OUCH!" Matthew cursed, his shin hitting a wooden board, which he now realized was a step.

"Watch your step, sir!" William turned to announce.

Matthew did the best he could not to mutter something back.

It wasn't a great deal of light, but suddenly their little corner of the tunnel flooded with an eerie grayness that came when William pushed open a door in the tunnel's ceiling; a door that opened up to another room.

"I know this room!" Sybil said, pushing her way to the front, despite protests from both Matthew and Tom. "It's the hospital store cupboard! Where the nurses kept all the supplies!"

William entered the room first, the candle close to dying, but from a brief look, said the room seemed safe, at least there was no trace of Walkers. Sybil entered quickly behind him and gasped, taking in the sight of room, or rather, what was left of it. "It's been torn apart!"

Indeed, boxes were turned over, bottles lay smashed on the ground, linens and bandage strips seemed to have been tossed every which way, and countless shelves were turned over. It was a complete mess.

But there was a more pressing matter than simply standing there and observing the remnants of the store cupboard. Matthew turned and slammed the door shut, and then grunted for Tom's help in pushing a heavy-looking crate near the wall to sit atop the store cupboard's secret door.

"Do you think that's wise, sir?" William asked. "What if we need to return—"

"We'll not be going back that way," Matthew grunted, pushing the crate a few more inches until he was satisfied nothing could push the door up. "When we leave this place, we're going out the front door."

"And with Kieran," Tom added, with just as much determination.

Sybil, meanwhile, was preoccupied with the broken shelves of medical supplies that cluttered the room. "Didn't Mary say something about her and Sir Richard hiding themselves in a store cupboard, and that was where the found the morphine for Bates?"

Matthew's brow furrowed. He vaguely remembered hearing something about this, but this was after he had gotten separated from the others.

"That's right," Tom added, coming to where she was standing.

Sybil frowned. "I…I know she was in a panic, but I don't remember her mentioning anything about the cupboard being in a condition like this," her frown deepened and she began to step over some of the fallen shelves. "I would think she would say something about the condition of the room; in case she was worried that Bates' medicine had been damaged, don't you think?"

"Sybil?" Matthew moved closer to where she was. His cousin was onto something, but he wasn't sure what.

"It wasn't like this when she was in here," she finalized. "The room, it…it wasn't torn apart like this, or at least not to this extent. This is recent!" she leaned closer and gasp escaped her throat. "William, give me the candle!"

"Milady?"

Sybil didn't repeat herself; she turned and more or less snatched what was left of the flickering light from the former footman's hands.

"What is it?" Tom asked, stepping closer. "What did you find?" Soon all of them were hovered around Sybil, trying to see what it was that she had discovered.

"Look…look at these broken shelves…and these boxes!" she held the candle out, trying to capture as much as she could with what little light it still gave. "Fingerprints! And Handprints! Don't you see?"

Matthew's eyes widened. He did see, and despite his years in the trenches where he had observed all sorts of ghastly horrors, he felt his stomach turn at the sight of the bloody handprints that covered the shelves.

"Kieran…" Tom whispered. "It's him; that's his blood!"

"I think you're right," Sybil murmured, biting her lip as she moved the candle around, her eyes taking in the various bloody handprints. They covered boxes that from the look of things had been flipped over and dumped upside down. She swallowed she counted the number of handprints on the different fallen shelves…and then the candle caught sight of a trickles of blood that covered the ground. "He was looking for something…"

Tom had moved away from the rest of them; he grabbed a hold of his rifle and was heading straight to the door that led out of the store cupboard and into the corridor beyond. A small barricade of shelves had been set up, but the Irishman paid them no heed, he just started kicking and shoving them out of his way, desperate to get to the door.

Matthew's eyes widened as he realized what his friend was doing. He also saw what looked to be more of Kieran's bloody handprints that littered the shelves blocking the door. "Tom, wait!" Matthew shouted.

"MY BROTHER IS OUT THERE BLEEDING TO DEATH!" Tom roared back at the rest of them, flinging some debris out of his way, just enough so he could open the door a crack to slip through. "I'm not waiting another second longer!"

"TOM!" Matthew moved after him. "TOM STOP!"

He didn't. Tom pushed the last fallen shelf that was blocking the door out of his way, and opened it. His intentions were to slip outside.

Not to allow the swarm of Walkers who were standing in the corridor, salivating at the smell of blood, inside.

But inside they came, pushing and shoving over each other, causing Tom to stumble backwards as they tried to enter.

"JESUS!" Tom cursed, scrambling to his feet as the horde pushed their way inside.

"WILLIAM!" Matthew shouted, aiming Reggie's pistol at the first few Walkers that entered. Without hesitation, he began to fire, hitting two in the head, cursing as one bullet flew passed, only grazing the rotted ear on of the monsters.

Tom was almost on his feet, but a Walker was quick and fell on top of him, its sharp, black teeth snapping at him, trying to bite the flesh of his throat and would have succeeded, had he not gotten the barrel of his rifle under the creature's own throat, and used it to wrestle it off him.

More gunfire filled the air, and the Walker that was attacking Tom slumped and sagged against him, dead from a bullet wound in its forehead. "I've got you covered, Mr. Branson!" William shouted, before turning his rifle and firing at another Walker that entered the room.

Tom muttered his thanks, pushing the dead Walker off his body and this time, making it to his feet. The room wasn't very big, and there wasn't a great deal of room to properly reload and aim. So instead, much like he had done that day at the petrol station, Tom took the butt of his rifle and swung it, hard, at an oncoming Walker, smashing its head just at the base of his rotting skull.

"THEY KEEP COMING!" William shouted, trying to fire again, but realizing he didn't have the room as two more Walkers moved towards him. Like Tom, he too began to swing his rifle, but he wasn't as successful as the Irishman in killing his targets. "THIS ISN'T WORKING!"

It was true, Matthew observed as he shot another Walker. They seemed to be never-ending; as soon as several would enter and die, another group would enter, tripping over the bodies of fallen Walkers, but that didn't stop them. They would quickly scramble to their feet (or as quickly as a living dead thing could do) and moan and drool and gasp and growl as they reached out to their prey, as if expecting to be welcomed and embraced before consuming on their flesh.

"BACK HERE!"

Matthew shot another Walker and then looked over his shoulder. Sybil was behind him, in a corner, waving her arms. And she was standing…near a door?

"THIS WAY!" she shouted.

"TOM! WILLIAM!" Matthew barked, gesturing towards Sybil. "FOLLOW HER!" he ordered, before firing again, and once again, missing his target.

"GO!" Tom shouted at William, pushing the lad away from him and back towards Sybil.

"YOU TOO, BRANSON!" Matthew barked, firing a second time at the same Walker, this time having success in killing his target…which was only replaced by another.

"I'M NOT ONE OF YOUR SOLDIERS TO ORDER ABOUT!" Tom barked back, swinging the rifle at another Walker that had nearly reached them from crawling across the floor after stumbling over the fallen body of another Walker.

"YOU GOT US INTO THIS MESS!" Matthew snarled. "SO THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS LISTEN!" Matthew reached out and shoved Tom away from him. "NOW GO!"

"TOM!" Sybil shouted over the blasts from Matthew's pistol.

William tried to keep firing; from the back of the room he was having a little more success in aiming and reloading, but there was so much debris in the way, not to mention he was trying very hard to not hit either Matthew or Tom.

"YOU CAN'T FIGHT THEM ALL YOURSELF!" Tom shouted at Matthew, successfully killing another Walker that entered…and once again, only to be replaced by another. "Fecking hell!" Tom cursed seeing more Walkers manage to enter into the room, a few of them crawling over the other bodies, pausing briefly, distracted by the bloody handprints on the shelves and crates and attempting to lap up what they could, like a cat trying to get the last of the cream at the bottom of a bowl.

"Damnation!" Matthew growled, turning then and grabbing the Irishman by the sleeve of his shirt. He shoved and pushed Tom towards Sybil and William, turning and firing when he could, continually pushing his friend, knowing that if he stopped, Tom would once again launch himself back into the fray. "MOVE MASON!" he roared at the private, turning and firing one more time, glad to see that the fallen shelves and debris around them were making it more difficult for the Walkers to reach them.

Sybil was already on the other side of the door, grabbing Tom by the lapels of his shirt and pulling him towards her, while Matthew shoved the cursing Irishman's back. He then reached for William, grabbing his arm and shoving him towards the door as well. He turned, fired his pistol one more time at an approaching Walker, and then dove through the door, landing hard on the ground, while Sybil, with the help of the other two, pushed it shut and bolted it.

"How long will that hold them?" William gasped, breathing hard.

"I don't intend to wait and see," Tom growled, turning around and offering a hand to Matthew to help him up.

Matthew, however, was furious, and shoved Tom's proffered hand away from him.

"DAMN IT, TOM, YOU COULD HAVE HAD US ALL KILLED!"

Tom's teeth were clenched and Matthew could tell that he was fighting the urge to retort, but instead he took a step back and walked to the other side of—where on earth were they?

Sybil must have noticed how Matthew was looking around their surroundings in confusion. "The linen room," she explained, pointing to several large laundry carts, filled with what looked like soiled bed linens from…who knows how far back.

"This is where all the sheets were kept for the hospital beds…as well as the place to bring soiled sheets to washed and ironed," she continued. "I remembered that it was next door to the store cupboard…and then remembered that there was a small door attached to both rooms."

"Lucky for us," Matthew groaned, rising to his feet at last.

But Sybil wasn't finished. "As a temporary escape, yes, but…but that's not all."

It suddenly occurred to Matthew that…there was distinctly awful smell lingering in that room. "What…what on earth…?"

"Exactly," Sybil murmured, as if reading his thoughts. She pointed to the ground then, and Matthew looked down and saw more drops of blood, although they weren't as heavy as what he had observed in the store cupboard…or the tunnel.

"He was in here."

Tom turned to look at her, his eyes growing wider. The question was clearly visible in his eyes, even though his lips had yet to form it.

Sybil then pointed to a corner, where there stood a small coal stove—a hot stove, judging from the heat that they could feel radiating from it. Above the stove was a shelf, where several irons sat, their purpose and place quite clear, but all the men followed Sybil's finger, which was pointing specifically at one iron, one that lay on the ground, and where that horrible smell was coming from.

And Matthew suddenly realized what that scent was, because it was one he had smelled before, once, just before he had fallen to what then, he thought was surely to be death.

The scent of burning flesh, and blood.

"He used the heat of the iron to close his wound," she explained, her voice filled with both horror and amazement. "I…I can't even imagine the pain he must have withstood to do that…"

Another curse passed Tom's lips. Matthew turned his head quickly, noticing how the Irishman had grabbed fistfuls of his hair, looking ready to pull it out in sheer frustration at feeling so helpless. Despite his initial anger at Tom's foolishness back in the other room, he did feel tremendous sympathy for his friend; he knew he would be doing the same thing, if he thought he was that close to finding his mother.

"He's out there…he's out there, dying, and…and I…" Tom couldn't finish, instead he turned to the wall and caused the rest of them to jump by slamming his fist, hard against it.

Sybil rushed forward, grabbing his fist before he could do it again. "Stop that!" she hissed, her fingers covering his knuckles, two of which were bleeding. She took her apron and began to dab at the blood. "Breaking your hand will NOT help your brother!" she reprimanded. "Listen to me, Tom!" she grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to face her; now it was her turn to be the calming one. "He did the right thing, using the iron on his hand; it stopped the bleeding, it probably saved his life!"

Tom didn't look so convinced, but he didn't argue with her either. "You think he's still out there?"

Sybil nodded. "I think your brother is the supposed 'madman' to whom Sir Richard referred; I think he's been living in this hospital for quite some time."

"She's right," William added, after examining the stove. "This has been lit for a while, not just recently; he probably slept in this room because of all the sheets—"

"He was here THIS WHOLE TIME, right under my nose? _RIGHT HERE?"_ he growled, shrugging Sybil's hands from his shoulders and turning away from evyerone in disgust. "I was walking these very corridors just YESTERDAY, and you're saying that I was right, that yes, HE WAS HERE—"

"No, I…I don't know that for certain, of course!" Sybil groaned, throwing her hands up into the air. "This is all a theory—"

"So HOW do you know that he's still alive? That one of THOSE THINGS didn't get to him like they tried to get to us? Because clearly they knew he had been in there, they smelled his blood and came running as fast as their dead feet could carry them—"

"But they DIDN'T get him, Tom!" Matthew added, stepping forward and gripping his friend's forearm. "Listen to what Sybil's saying; he was in here—the iron has been used, she's right, there's…" he paused and swallowed the nausea in his throat. "There's burnt skin and blood all over it, I just looked."

Sybil nodded her head. "And while I…I _can't_ guarantee that he's alive, I DO KNOW that doing something as drastic as that, as burning his wound, did a great deal more in stopping the bleeding than any amount of linens dressing it."

"We WILL find him, Tom," Matthew vowed, his hand now gripping the Irishman's shoulder. "I promised you that we would find him, and we will."

Tom looked back and forth between Sybil and Matthew, and took a deep breath, seeming to (for the moment at least) relax and nod his head in understanding. "Alright…but…but if what you said is true, that he used something like that to stop the bleeding, and judging from what I saw, he lost a great deal of blood, then he would need something to give him strength, to keep from passing out, something that would replenish—"

"Ale," William finished.

Matthew frowned. "Ale?"

"William's right," Sybil agreed. "Alcohol would be the quickest way to reduce both the pain of the wound and replenish the iron lost in his body. It's not perfect, but…but it would help."

"Aye," Tom nodded. "And I doubt the hospital has a distillery or brewery lying beneath its depths," he shook his head. "No, no, Kieran wouldn't stay here, not with those things out there; he'd find a way out, he'd find his way into some pub, or—"

"Or shop?" Matthew added, his eyes widening as a realization dawned upon him. "Lavinia; Daisy!"

* * *

There was a window in the linen room, but it was quite high. With Tom's help, Matthew was able to lift William up to the window's ledge, where he proceeded to break the glass, before taking some of the sheets they had found in a laundry cart, and tie them together to create a rope. Sybil was the next to go up, followed by Matthew (Tom was the bulkier of the two, and believed he could support Matthew's weight in climbing to the window rather than the other way around). Before Matthew climbed to the ledge, William used the sheet rope to help Sybil down onto the other side. So far, the ground the outside ground of the hospital seemed clear of Walkers, but she clung to the small pistol that Matthew had given her, just in case.

The window wasn't very wide, and couldn't fit more than two people at a time. William prepared to descend the sheet rope after Sybil, but not before Tom took a running leap, and both Matthew and the former footman reached out to grasp Tom's arms. It took a great deal of strength to lift the muscular Irishman, but they managed to do it, and William quickly climbed down, so Tom could take his place on the ledge.

Soon all four of them were outside, stepping away from the hospital and looking around, making sure they wouldn't be blindsided by attacks. But just as it had been when they first entered the village…the place looked deserted.

"Is it possible?" Sybil murmured in awe as she gazed at the silent streets. "Are they all…contained within the hospital?"

The nausea Matthew had felt earlier began to grow once again as he thought about something Dr. Clarkson had said, about how he had been conducting…_experiments_…on some Walkers, in hopes to find a cure.

…Good Lord, were some of those Walkers Clarkson's _"patients"?_ His experiments, like Frankenstein's Creature? How many Walkers did the man keep? He was terrified to learn the answer to that question.

"Should we split up?" William asked, looking to Matthew for his opinion. "Two of us go to the pub, while two go the shops?"

It made sense to some degree, but Matthew shook his head. "No…no, first we find Daisy and Lavinia; have them join us." Something was troubling him, and Matthew didn't like the idea of the two of them being separated from the rest of the group.

Much to Matthew's surprise, Tom agreed with him, and even led the way to the shop where they had last seen Daisy and Lavinia. But neither woman was there, nor in the shop next door…or the one after that.

"But they have been here!" Sybil exclaimed, pointing to car that was left exactly where Matthew had stopped it, and where a few boxes lay, filled with supplies. "They must have gone somewhere to find more supplies."

But where? The village didn't have that many shops, and it certainly didn't have many with the supplies that Mrs. Patmore had been wanting.

…No, no, something was wrong, and judging from the now worried expression William was wearing, Matthew could see that the private was thinking the same thing he was.

The sound of glass breaking suddenly caught their attention.

"In there," Tom pointed, at a shop just a few feet away.

Both Matthew and William looked at each other, the fear that they were both feeling evident on their faces, and only growing all the more as more noise came from the same place.

And then a shot rang out and filled the air.

"Daisy!" William gasped.

Matthew didn't hesitate any further. He turned and ran towards the shop, pistol in hand, ready to fight just like before, with William right on his heels.

The shop door had one of those bells on it that rang whenever you entered. A silent curse was murmured in Matthew's mind as the blasted sound announced their arrival—so much for the element of surprise. But then again, this was a different enemy, one where drawing its attention away from its current victims would be good.

But nothing happened.

William rushed in behind him, the bell once again ringing…

Still nothing.

Was Tom wrong? Had it been another shop? No, no, Matthew had heard the noise come from this place too.

He glanced behind him and saw both Tom and Sybil, holding their own weapons and standing at the ready just a few feet outside the door, as if waiting for a signal to enter. He held up his hand to the two, telling them to wait, before turning and looking at William, and making a motion with his hand as he had done when they were back in France, a motion to fan out and take one aisle of the shop while he took the other.

The place was an absolute mess, just like the supply room in the hospital, only far less bloody. But there were cans and boxes strewn all across the floor, and Matthew found he had to look down at and watch his steps more so than look up to see if anything—or anyone—was coming towards him.

William was clearly having a similar problem, because at one point the lad slipped, and in an effort to catch his balance, reached out and grabbed a unsteady shelf, causing a massive amount of items to fall and crash.

If there were Walkers in this place, and if that didn't get their attention, he didn't know what else would.

But instead of a Walker's hungry grunt filling his ears, it was…a woman's gasp?

"Lavinia?" Matthew hissed. It had just come from over his shoulder! "Daisy, Lavinia, are you in here!"

"Matthew?"

His eyes widened at sound of his name being whispered. "Lavinia! Where are you?"

"HERE!"

He looked up, and saw a tiny window in a nearby wall, hiding between two shelves, with several tin cans in front of it. But he saw Lavinia's eyes and fingers point through the tiny bars of the window. Good Lord, it looked like some sort of strange…prison cell! As he moved closer, he practically stumbled himself this time, only it wasn't over fallen debris from the shop, but rather…a dead Walker.

"Sir?"

Matthew looked up and saw William coming towards him. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell the lad to be careful, that not only had he found where both Lavinia and Daisy were, but that there was a dead Walker in the room—but all those words escaped him as he noticed the creature coming up behind William's back.

"WILLIAM, BEHIND YOU!" Daisy's voice suddenly filled the room.

William turned, just in time to dodge the Walker, who seemed to have emerged from behind the counter where the shopkeeper's register was kept. Before Matthew could grab his gun to fire, William reached over, grabbed the largest tin can that he could find, one about the size a person's head, and with all the strength he had, smashed it down, hard, atop the Walker's skull.

A sickening crack was heard, and the Walker made a garbling sound before falling to its knees and landing next to its dead companion.

Matthew quickly scrambled away, getting back on his own feet and making a face as the smell of…pickle juice, filled the air, along with dead flesh.

"William, are you alright? WILLIAM?" Daisy's voice was in a panic; both she and Lavinia were trying to look out from their tiny window, but seemed to be having difficulty. William now saw where they were speaking, and moved quickly, leaping over the counter and moving towards the back of the shop.

"He's fine, Daisy," Matthew tried to reassure, following William's lead and climbing over the counter as well.

"We're locked in this office!" Lavinia shouted from the window. "A Walker attacked Daisy; I was able to kill it, but it obviously wasn't alone, because soon another followed and we ran back here to escape, and locked the door…but now we can't get out! The lock won't turn, and I dropped my rifle—"

"I'm out of bullets!" Daisy helplessly explained. "I…I tried to fire, I honestly did at that thing, but the bars in the window are too small, and I think I just made more of a mess than anything else, and—"

"It's alright, Daisy, we'll get you both out, I promise!" Matthew tried to reassure. "Now…was it just the two Walkers?"

"I don't know," Lavinia's voice spoke again. "Perhaps, but…we can't really tell. And who knows with the amount of noise that we and you have been making—"

"Sir!" Matthew turned his head, and saw William holding what looked like…crowbar? "I found this back here! I can use it to get the door open!"

"Good work, Mason," Matthew nodded. But he wasn't relaxed, far from it. As Lavinia said, there could be more Walkers nearby, and he would feel a great deal better if someone was covering their backs while they tried to get Daisy and Lavinia out of the shopkeeper's office. "Hang on, William, let me get Sybil and Tom—"

"Oh, did you find Mr. Branson's brother?" Lavinia asked.

Matthew sighed. "It's a very long, complicated story I'm afraid, and one that I would be glad to tell you once you get out."

"Agreed," Lavinia murmured, both women suddenly gasping as William began to work and ply the crowbar to the door.

"Do you know what you're doing, Mason?" Matthew asked with a frown.

"I think so!" William grunted, applying pressure to the crowbar, leaning his strength into it and pushing against the door in an attempt to break it open. "Hang on, Daisy, I'm coming!"

"Be careful!" she cried.

Matthew turned and looked around the shop, waiting to see if another Walker emerged, ready to call out for Tom and Sybil to come and help if need be, ready to—

"I GOT IT!" William gasped, the crowbar having broken through the lock, as well as taking off the doorknob. But it did the trick, because the door could now swing open, and both women rushed out, relieved to finally be out of their tiny prison.

"Oh William!" Daisy cried, throwing her arms around the former footman, burying her face against chest and sobbing. "I was so scared! I worried you would never find us! Or the Walkers would get you! Or—"

"Shh, shh, it's alright, you're safe now," William soothed, hugging the kitchen maid close and tight, turning his head and smiling somewhat bashfully up at Matthew.

Matthew returned the smile, and felt heat rise in his cheeks as he looked over at Lavinia, who was also looking at him. "Are _you_ alright?" he asked, concern in his voice.

She sighed and nodded her head. "As right as a person can be in our situation."

He was glad that the hostility between the two of them seemed to have melted, at least a little bit. But he could still see something in her eyes, or in the way her eyes were avoiding his. "Lavinia, I—"

"Let's talk more once we're out of this shop; I'd feel a great deal better, wouldn't you, Daisy?"

Daisy sniffled and nodded her head, looking embarrassed for crying so. But William was smiling, his arm around the kitchen maid, and leading her towards the door, telling her to watch out and be careful where she stepped.

No truer words were spoken…for as they passed the Walker whose head had been busted by a giant tin of pickles by William, the creature made a grab for Daisy's leg.

Her scream ripped through the shop, causing both Sybil and Tom to burst inside, and for Matthew to grab his gun and point it at the creature's head.

But not before William grabbed Daisy about the waist, pulling her away from the monster's snapping jaws and hungry mouth, going so far as to KICK the beast in the head to get it away.

…Before howling with pain, as the Walker's sharp, rotted teeth sank into the flesh around his ankle.


	29. Parting

_HUGE IMPORTANT CHAPTER PEOPLE! And emotional, just to give you fair warning. I'm not going to say much, just thank everyone for following and reading and hope you enjoy. One more chapter will be posted before the end of the month (and before the fic goes on hiatus for the month of May-ahh!) Dedication to fans of William/Daisy_

* * *

_Chapter Twenty-Nine_

"**Parting"**

Chaos erupted.

Daisy's screaming echoed off the walls as the Walker attacked. The sound was only rivaled by William's painful wail as the monster bit down on his ankle, its teeth sinking deep. Sybil and Tom heard the screams and came bursting in, shouting themselves, as was Lavinia, but it was the blast of Matthew's gun that finally filled the room with silence, as he fired at the attacking Walker's head, its steel-like jaws going slack at last.

But the damage had already been done.

The Walker's teeth had not only torn into the flesh at William's ankle, but had bit so hard that it severed his Achilles tendon, laming him and causing him to fall forward as the pain ripped through his body.

"NO!" Daisy screamed. "WILLIAM!"

Blood was oozing out and pooling at his limp foot, and Lavinia had grabbed the crowbar William had earlier used to free them from the locked office, using it to break the jaws the now dead Walker, freeing William's leg…and revealing the ghastly sight of his injury.

"LADY SYBIL! LADY SYBIL!" Daisy hysterically shrieked, looking desperately for the nurse who had tended so many wounded when the house was a convalescent home. "PLEASE, PLEASE HELP HIM!"

Sybil flew to William's side, kneeling at his leg and gasping at the amount of tissue damage the Walker had caused. She ripped her apron off and quickly moved to wrap it around William's bleeding leg. William let out a howl of pain at the feeling. He was also shaking—convulsing even.

"I need a blanket, something—please!" she shouted, looking at the others who were standing around and staring down at poor William in horror. She turned her eyes to Tom, and he nodded his head, moving away to go in search of one. "He's going into shock," Sybil muttered under her breath. "We need to stop the bleeding," she said more to herself before turning her attention to the footman. "William, I'm sorry, this will hurt but I need to apply pressure, to stop the bleeding!" Without warning, she lifted his leg, her hand squeezing the apron to his ankle and heel, causing him to howl even louder at the movement and the touch. The apron looked as if it were soaked through already.

"Daisy, come around to him, let him rest his head on your lap—good girl!" she continued to direct, happy that Daisy was listening and didn't hesitate to do as Sybil said. "Tom, did you find a blanket?"

"Aye!" he came, rushing back. It was actually a large burlap sack, but it was thick and it would do for the moment. He had ripped the sack down the seams to make it larger, and then he quickly wrestled his own jacket off, so it could be placed over William's chest, on top of the sack.

"Good, good, um…I'm going to need dressings…and, and my tools are in my bag—I'll need to sterilize the instruments; Matthew?" she turned to face her cousin, who was still standing and looking down at the scene in horror. "Matthew, give me your matches; let me use the flame to sterilize the tools. And Lavinia! Is there a sink or something back there behind the counter? We're going to need hot water! It should be boiling, but unless there's a stove anywhere around here, we'll need to make it as hot as possible. And ale—or any kind of alcohol; the stronger the better! I could use that to sterilize the instruments actually, as well as for William to drink to block out the pain as best as possible…"

Matthew watched in awe as his cousin spoke, never once loosening her grip on William's bleeding leg, never once flinching or gagging or anything of the sort at the sight of the torn flesh, the pooling blood, or the reality that his tendons had been shredded by the teeth of a Walker.

The teeth of a Walker.

Matthew turned his eyes to Lavinia, who was standing frozen beside him, still clutching the crowbar she had used to pry the creature's dead jaws away from William's leg.

She was pale, and shaking…and she was gazing at William in a way that made his blood run cold.

_ No…no, not William…_

She must have felt his gaze upon her, because she lifted her eyes and stared back at him, and in their green depths, Matthew had the answer he had been dreading, but that he recalled Reggie explaining to him once…

_"If they bite you…you're as good as dead."_

If they bite you…you become one of them.

"Matthew?" Sybil called out to him once again, her eyes pleading. "Matthew, the ale? Or whisky or wine, or—or something, please, I…" her voice suddenly began to trail off, no doubt because she was beginning to see and read his expression.

Daisy looked up from where she was kneeling, William's head on her lap, his hands gripping hers as he trembled beneath the bag and the Tom's jacket. The kitchen maid stared at him, and Matthew saw her eyes, large and hollow looking, and he suddenly felt a tight stab of pain hit his chest and squeeze his heart.

"Matthew?" it was Sybil's voice again, and he wrestled his eyes away from Daisy's to look back at her. "What is it, what's wrong?"

"Please!" Daisy's cry broke the air before he even had the chance to respond to his cousin. "Please, please, we have to do something, we have to help him, please Capt. Crawley, please!"

He felt so helpless. He honestly didn't know what to do or say right now, because it was clear that none of them, with the exception of Lavinia, knew what had just happened. They didn't understand William's fate; they didn't understand that even if they stopped the bleeding and somehow managed to take away all of poor William's pain…the lad was still going to die.

And become one of those things.

_Like Molesley. Like Mrs. Bird. And you'll be forced to deal with the same dilemma as before…_

And God help him, he wasn't ready. Not with William.

Tom muttered a curse under his breath and went to go in search of the alcohol Sybil required. Matthew swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced over at Lavinia again, her eyes full of sadness, but also full of truth. Without saying the words, she was confirming what he feared.

"Matthew," Sybil repeated his name once again, her voice firm but even. He didn't have to look at her to know that she needed an answer from him. They all did. They all knew something was wrong. And as painful as it was to reveal, they all deserved to know.

"We can try to make him as comfortable as possible."

It was Lavinia who spoke, breaking the strained silence that filled the room. She put on a smile and began to kneel down beside Daisy, but Sybil reached out and stopped her, looking frantic (and not caring that her hand was bloody and now staining Lavinia's sleeve).

"I can do this, I know I can do this," she insisted, her eyes holding Lavinia's before moving up to Matthew's.

"I'm not doubting you, Sybil—"

"Then stop speaking as though there's nothing to be done!"

"NOTHING can be done!"

Everyone seemed to flinch at Matthew's sudden roar, even Tom who had just returned with a bottle of wine he had found a few shelves over.

All of them stared up at him, fear and horror in their eyes, as well as confusion and disbelief.

"What…" Daisy began, her large eyes only growing wider. "What…what do you mean?"

During the War, Matthew had always wondered how those officers, the ones that delivered the dreaded telegrams to announce that a someone's son or husband would not be returning…he always wondered how those men prepared themselves, before delivering the news that no one wanted to hear, but that needed to be given. There had been an officer, a Lt. Reynolds whom he had been friends with in the early years during the war. Lt. Reynolds was injured sometime in 1915, and unable to return for duty, yet the Army gave him the job of delivering these telegrams. Matthew couldn't begin to fathom what that must have been like, and prayed that if he was ever injured and unable to return to duty, that he would never be asked to join his friend in what he could only imagine as the worst job a man could have.

But now here he was. And it was worse than he could imagine, because William was still with them, though barely conscious it seemed.

Matthew looked at the private, whose skin was pale and clammy, a layer of sweat covering his brow and cheeks, and his eyes were struggling to stay open. Was that because of the shock and the blood loss of what had happened? Or was that the monster's poison? Was it already spreading throughout his body? Was he transforming right now, as they spoke, as they looked at each other?

Oh God in heaven. Not only was he going to explain to all of them, including William, what was happening, but that he would also have to…have to shoot William, in the head, before the transformation was complete.

And this time, Matthew knew he had to be the one to do it.

"If you're bitten by a Walker, you become one of them."

The words came out of his mouth so quickly, and yet their understanding must have been clear, because the way everyone stared at him revealed the horror they were feeling at such a revelation.

"W-w-what?" Sybil stammered.

Matthew closed his eyes to try and collect himself, before speaking once again. "Reggie—Lavinia's father," he began again. "He…he told me that when a Walker bites you…you…you become infected with…with whatever it is that they have, that makes them…them."

"No…" Daisy whispered, shaking her head even before the word had left her lips, even before Matthew had finished speaking. "No…no, no, that's…that's not true…"

Matthew swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes clouding with tears. Dear God, he couldn't put it any plainer, and he didn't want to explain it a third time if he could help it.

"It is…" Lavinia whispered, her hand gently resting on Daisy's shoulder. "My…my mother was bitten by one," she murmured. "And it happened to her."

Matthew stared at her, surprised by this revelation. But then he recalled how Reggie had told him that he couldn't leave London, not yet, not until he completed some "unfinished business".

Now it all made sense. Now he knew what that unfinished business was. And he couldn't help but wonder…had he been able to do it before he died?

"No…no, that can't be…"

Matthew looked down at Sybil, who despite all of this, was still clutching William's leg, was still holding her blood-soaked apron to it, still trying to keep it upright and elevated, still trying to save the footman's life, bless her.

"No, I…I tended all those officers when the house was under attack, and…and there were men who had been bitten, and I…" she paused, shaking her head like Daisy, refusing to believe what he had said was true. But he could see the doubt clouding her brain, and while he had not been there when those attacks had taken place, and while he had not witnessed someone transform from human to Walker, he believed in what Reggie had told him. And what Lavinia now confirmed. Sybil lifted her eyes then to Tom, who was standing close, still holding the wine bottle she had asked someone to fetch. "Have you…?" she began and then shook her head and tried to rephrase her question. "Do you know…do you know anything about this?"

Tom looked at him, and Matthew swallowed, setting his jaw and gazing back at the Irishman. He could tell that Tom believed him, that Tom had put the puzzle pieces together and realized that yes, this was true, and this was possible.

"Capt. Crawley?" Matthew turned his eyes once again to Daisy, whose nose was red and her cheeks swollen and pink from the tears she had shed. And he felt his throat tighten even more because he knew there was nothing he could say to stop her tears. "Please…I…I know…I know what William did was wrong, but…but please, don't…don't punish him like this, please…please let Lady Sybil help?"

Oh God. Matthew lifted his eyes to the ceiling of the shop, his jaw clenched and his hands balling into fists. He hated himself; he hated being the messenger of this sad news, he hated that he hadn't killed the Walker himself, that he hadn't killed it in time before it bit William, or that he hadn't checked to see if it was dead after William had struck it. And now, now poor Daisy thought that the reason he was saying these things was because he despised William for lying about what had really happened all those months ago? How he wanted to scream _"I would take his place if I could!"_ and he meant that. William was the finest, bravest soldier he ever knew. William had saved his life so many times, during the War as well as now. He owed William everything…and he hated that there was nothing more he could do for the lad.

Other than, perhaps, to reassure Daisy that he didn't despise him.

"Matthew?"

He looked down at his cousin once again, who was still clutching William's leg, still refusing to loosen her grip, but whose large, blue eyes were shimmering with tears, and who was shaking her head, wanting to deny what he could see was dawning truth.

With a heavy sigh, he knelt next to Sybil, and carefully laid his hand over hers. "Let me take his leg, Sybil," he whispered. "You've done enough."

"NO!" Sybil screamed, and without warning, she balled her hands into two tight fists and pounded them against Matthew's chest, nearly knocking him over by their force.

She looked ready to strike him again, but Tom was there, quickly kneeling down behind Sybil, his own hands grabbing her wrists and trying to hold her back as best he could. Which was a difficult task, because she fought; she tried to shake his hold from her and she thrashed about in the Irishman's arms. But eventually her struggles died down, until she was simply sobbing, her body crumpling into a ball and shaking as she cried.

Tom was still there, his hands never loosening their hold on her wrists until she crumbled, the action causing her arms to move around herself, and thus Tom moving his arms around her. With his lips in her hair, the Irishman held her and whispered soothing words in his native tongue, rocking her gently against his body as she cried for the fallen hero who she so desperately was trying to save.

Matthew turned his eyes again to Daisy, who was simply sitting there, still and numb, tears rolling down her cheeks as she seemed to processing everything that he and Lavinia had revealed to her. Every so often she would shake her head, but unlike before, no words came out.

He swallowed and turned his eyes again to Lavinia, who sadly held his gaze, and gave a tiny nod of with her head. He knew exactly what she was telling him, and he hated that she was right. They would have to do something before the transformation took place; they couldn't let William become one of those things, they couldn't let Daisy see him like that.

Matthew nodded his head back at Lavinia, and she seemed to understand him too, because she turned then to Daisy, and carefully tried to put her arm around the small kitchen maid's shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words left her throat, everyone froze and went silent, including Sybil, as the faintest of voices filled the space around them.

"Sir…?"

Matthew leaned close, reaching his free hand out to William, clutching the private's shoulder and trying desperately to see the other man's eyes, which were hidden beneath his hooded lashes. "I'm here, William, I'm here," he quickly answered, leaning closer.

A faint smile spread across the younger man's face and Matthew felt his heart break again at the sight. But he needed to be strong for the private; it was his turn to be the brave one. "I'm here," he repeated again. "Are you in pain? We have some wine for you; we can give you some wine." Surely they could do that for him? As Lavinia said, surely they could see to the man's comfort during his last moments and try to make them as painless as possible?

William carefully shook his head. "I…I don't feel anything," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Sybil clamped a hand over her mouth at these words, and turned her face towards Tom's chest, burying it there against him while his arms remained tight around her, one hand in her hair, his lips against her brow and temple, still murmuring words to her in Gaelic.

"Is it…is it true?" he rasped, trying to open his eyes a little wider as he gazed back at Matthew. "What you say about…about being bitten?"

He wished it wasn't, but as he glanced back at Lavinia, Matthew knew sadly that it was. "Yes, William, I'm afraid so," he replied, the emotion growing in his voice.

William gave a small nod, and then freed one of his hands from Daisy's iron grasp, and reached forward towards his former captain.

Matthew didn't hesitate; he took hold of William's hand in his own and gripped it, hard, trying to hide his shock at how cold the hand felt. "Promise…promise me, sir…" William rasped. "You…you won't let me—"

He knew what William was asking of him, and he couldn't let the young man finish his sentence. He didn't think he could bear hearing those words and he didn't want Daisy or Sybil to hear them, either. "I promise, William, I promise," he was quick to reply.

William gave a faint smile and squeezed Matthew's hand. "Thank you, sir…it's been an honor to serve with you."

Oh God, please no! No, no, not like this, please…

But now was not the time for tears. He would grieve later. Right now, William needed to hear other words spoken by him. "No, Mason, the honor has been all mine," he somehow managed to rasp, before lifting his hand to his brow and giving the private a salute. "You are the bravest man I know and it is I who have been most honored to serve with you."

He faintly smiled at this and Matthew watched with a heavy heart as the lad lifted his hand to his own brow to return the salute. "Will you…will you look after Daisy for me?" he asked next. "Help her with her shooting lessons?"

"Oh William!" Daisy cried, finally giving way to her sobs once again, her head falling forward, her brow pressed against his, her hands cupping his face and running her fingers along his cheeks.

"It's alright," he whispered, his hands weakly touching hers. "But you must…you must continue your practice; please, please promise me that you will."

"I'll teach her," Tom's voice spoke then.

Matthew looked at his friend who still cradled Sybil in his arms, his chin resting atop her head, his eyes locked with William's as he spoke.

"We both will," Matthew added. It was the least he could do.

"Thank you…" William murmured, moving his eyes back to Tom's. "I'm…I'm so sorry Mr. Branson, for…for what happened to your brother—"

"I'll find him, don't worry about that," Tom interrupted, clearly fighting his own emotion, like Matthew. "But thank you, for bringing me here; for telling me about him."

William smiled weakly, and then turned his attentions back to the sobbing kitchen maid who continued to cradle his head on her lap and run her tiny fingers across his face. "Daisy…I…I want you to know something—"

"No, William, please…please don't say it," she moaned, shaking her head, her hand even moving down to cover his mouth.

William's shaky fingers took hold of hers and he gently kissed them, before bringing them away from his lips. "I want to…" he rasped. "Please, I…this may be my last chance."

Daisy continued to shake her head, but she didn't stop him as he told her, before a small group of witnesses, how much he loved her, how he had loved her ever since she came to work at Downton, how he always thought her the most beautiful woman, both in that kitchen and in that house. How the very thought of her was what gave him strength during the War, was what kept him alive. And how despite everything that had happened now, he would do it all over again, if it meant keeping her safe.

Matthew felt a hand touch his own, and he looked down to see that Lavinia had reached out for him. She kept her eyes on the kitchen maid and the footman, but she clung to his hand while William confessed his love.

He didn't remove his hand; if anything, he clung to it as well, gently squeezing her fingers. But his mind wasn't there, but with another, a woman back at Downton who, like Daisy for William, had kept him going during the War's bloodiest moments. And that ultimately had been his siren's call back to Downton after waking in this world gone to hell.

Daisy's tear-filled eyes lifted then, very quickly, and Matthew was actually startled by the desperation which he saw in them.

"Capt. Crawley…I…" she looked down at William, who was grimacing a little, as if he were in pain, though he denied it. She ran her fingers along William's cheek, brushing some of his fringe out of his eyes…and then once again lifted her eyes to Matthew's, and startled everyone when she asked, "will you marry us?"

Matthew nearly fell backwards at her question. "W-w-w-what?"

"Marry us," Daisy repeated, her small voice growing more and more determined.

He honestly didn't know what to say. How…how could he…?

"You're a captain!" she stated, as if she could read his thoughts and was answering the question. "And captains have that power, do they not? To marry people?"

She was thinking of a naval captain, like the captain of a ship. Yes, they had the authority to wed couples, but army captains?

"That's right, Daisy," Lavinia answered, putting on a smile for the kitchen maid.

Matthew's eyes widened and he looked to Lavinia, wondering if she was also confused by Daisy's assumption about any man who held the title of "captain". However when Lavinia's eyes locked with his, he could see that she _did_ understand the difference, that she _was_ aware…and that it didn't matter. Not in this moment.

"Yes, Daisy, Capt. Crawley can do that," she continued, her eyes holding Matthew's for a moment longer, before turning back to Daisy's and giving the woman a sympathetic smile. "And we shall all be your witnesses."

"Daisy…" William's voice was strained, and with a shaky hand he lifted it to the girl's face. "You…you don't have to—"

"I do," Daisy answered, blushing slightly as she realized the very words she had spoken. She took hold of William's hand and laced their fingers together, before bringing them to her lips, mimicking the same action he had done earlier for her hand. "I want to."

Matthew swallowed and glanced back and forth between Daisy and William, and Lavinia who was still holding his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I um…" he suddenly felt rather lightheaded. "I um…I've never performed a marriage before, I'm not sure I know the right words to say?"

"I think in a situation like this," Lavinia whispered. "Certain formalities can be brushed aside; all that matters are the vows exchanged."

If he could, he would ask Lavinia to perform this sudden ceremony that had been thrust upon him. He was amazed at how calm she was handling herself, and he envied her. He also, strangely, found himself envying William, who was gazing up at the woman whose lap supported his head, and who was looking down upon him with nothing but the sweetest tenderness. How often had he dreamed of Mary looking at him in such a way? Had she ever looked at him like that? Once, perhaps; before all this madness, before they had allowed their stubborn pride to get the better of them and drive them apart.

Dear Lord, would she ever look at him like that again?

"Go on…" Lavinia whispered, encouraging him and squeezing his hand again. Her smile gave him strength, and once again, Matthew found himself grateful for having met Lavinia Swire.

He glanced over at Tom and Sybil, both of whom were gazing at William and Daisy, but who hadn't loosened their hold one another, either. Sybil's sobs had ceased, but silent tears still dripped down her cheeks. Her hands were clasped to those of Tom's which were wrapped around her, holding her against his chest, his cheek leaning against her brow. They were lost in their own world, it seemed, much like William and Daisy.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and imagined Mary standing before him, dressed in white lace and silk, a sheer veil covering her ivory face, her dark eyes gazing back at him through its netting. What would the vicar say if it were their wedding?

"William…" he began. "Will you take Daisy to be your wife? To love her and cherish her, honor and keep her, now—" his voice caught in his throat as the words "until death do you part" began to emerge. How could he say that since the lad was at death's door right now?

But he didn't have to say them. William answered himself.

"I do," he rasped, bringing Daisy's hand to his lips and kissing the knuckles tenderly.

Daisy smiled despite her tears and squeezed his other hand, never letting it go.

"Daisy," Matthew managed to collect himself. "Will you take William to be your husband? To love him and cherish him, honor and keep him—"

"I do," Daisy gasped, swallowing back the sob that threatened to burst forth. Matthew couldn't deny he was grateful for the eager response; he knew he would be a blubbering mess himself, if he had to carry the vows further.

"Then…then I pronounce you husband and wife," he managed to finish, thankful again for Lavinia's reassuring squeeze. She was telling him that he had done well.

Daisy smiled at this, and bent her head then, until her lips brushed those of William's. It was the first kiss she had initiated between the two of them since before he had gone to join the army. The last time she had kissed him had been when she had found him sulking in the Servant's Hall, after the humiliation of being handed a white feather for cowardice. She had kissed him then to cheer him up, but for no other reason than that. She liked William, very much, and there was a part of her that thought perhaps…with time…she could like him in a way similar to the way he liked her. But her kiss had given him false hope, and with Mrs. Patmore's pressuring, soon Daisy found herself "engaged" to William, as a means to give him hope during the War. She hated the lie, but at the same time, she hated the thought of breaking his heart. Now the War was over, but a different war was raging, and somewhere in the chaos of it all, Daisy never got around to "breaking the engagement". Now, as she gazed down at this man, who had always been so brave, who always tried to do the right thing and put others before himself…she was grateful she hadn't.

Oh the cruelty of such irony; now, as he lay dying on her lap, she realized how much he did mean to her, and how dearly that she did love him.

Was it cruel, in their last moments together, to ask Capt. Crawley to marry them? She was very much aware that they would only be husband and wife for so many minutes.

Or was it good? Was it the right thing to do?

The smile he gave her was her answer.

No one said anything. They all just sat around William, keeping vigil, watching him as he lay as comfortable as possible; his head nestled on Daisy's lap while her fingers continued to stroke his face.

While Lavinia's hold on Matthew's hand eventually loosened to the point where they could release one another, Matthew's hold on Sybil's blood-soaked apron around William's leg did not. He couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he was being cruel, in trying to keep the bleeding at bay. Was it better to let the lad die faster by bleeding out? Or did it matter? He just prayed that William truly wasn't feeling any pain. Yet judging from the way he was gazing at Daisy, he doubted William was aware of anything else happening around him.

They all seemed to sit there for quite some time. Silence filled the room, only broken every so often by soft whispers between William and Daisy, as well as the sounds of their lips kissing one another. Matthew's gaze fell to William's chest, and watched as its movements began to slow. The rise and fall of it began to lessen…bit by bit…slower…and slower…until…

It had stopped moving.

Lavinia leaned close to inspect what the rest of them suspected. She then sat back and lifted her eyes to Matthew.

No gestures, no words, just a simple look that told him everything he needed to know.

William was gone.

"If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy…"

Matthew's eyes moved to Daisy, who was still stroking William's face, her lips hovering over his brow, and her small, soft voice, quietly filling the air around them.

"Nothing else would matter in the world today,  
We could go on loving in the same…old…way…"

Her voice broke then, and Matthew couldn't blame her. The tears he had fought so long to suppress found their freedom at last. Sybil was crying again, and when Matthew glanced their way, noticed that Tom had tears in his eyes too.

And Lavinia, sweet and strong Lavinia; she was wiping her eyes as well, while also rising to her feet and taking a few steps away from the newly grieving widow. Matthew swallowed and let his eyes follow Lavinia as she hugged her arms around herself and went to stand in a nearby corner. He caught her gaze, and even though no words or gestures were spoken or given, he could tell that she was asking him to join her.

So he did. For the first time since taking William's bleeding leg from Sybil's hand, he finally released it, tenderly placing it down on the ground, his fingers trembling, covered slightly with William's blood.

He didn't bother cleaning himself. He simply walked over to where Lavinia stood, and waited for her to speak first.

"We don't have much time," she whispered.

He knew what she meant. "How…how soon?"

Lavinia sighed and shook her head. "I…I don't know, but…but from what I have observed, this is how it happens. A person dies, a short period passes, and then…then they rise."

_And then they rise._

William had asked him to not let this happen, to not allow him to become a monster, and by God, Matthew was going to keep that promise. And it had to be him to do it. "Alright," he sighed at last, glancing over his shoulder at Daisy, who was still holding William to her, still brushing her fingers across his cold face, still humming her song like a sweet lullaby.

"I'll see to Daisy," Lavinia whispered.

Matthew forced a smile, grateful for her help. He looked then to Tom and Sybil, both of whom remained curled up with one another. He caught Tom's eye and prayed that his friend would understand, and thankfully, he did.

"Best to go now," he murmured into Sybil's ear.

Sybil had been resting her head against Tom's shoulder, her face pressed against the fabric of his shirt, which no doubt was sadly soaked through due the tears she had wept for poor William. She had just witnessed the saddest and most beautiful thing in the entire world, and she felt hollow and numb, as well as filled with overflowing emotion. The thing that was grounding her, that was keeping her from melting to the ground in a sorrowful mess was Tom.

Tom; whose strong arms and soothing voice were both her anchor and her stronghold.

"Go?" she whispered, turning her face slightly towards his.

"Aye," he whispered, moving to stand and bringing her with him.

Sybil glanced down at William and Daisy once more, and then moved her eyes across the room to where both Lavinia and Matthew were standing. She held her cousin's gaze, and saw the sorrowful reality in the blue of his eyes, and realized then, what he was going to do.

She wanted to protest. She wanted to stop him from what he was going to do, she didn't want to believe that it was possible, that someone as dear and lovely and sweet as William could become…

"Come on love," Tom murmured, his hand on her shoulder, trying to turn and guide her away from the others and out of the shop.

It wasn't easy, because Sybil didn't want to move, she wanted to run back to Matthew and ask him if he was sure this was going to happen, that maybe he was wrong, maybe there still was a chance to save William!

But her heart knew the truth, even if her head didn't want to believe it. "This isn't right…" she whispered to Tom as she finally allowed him to guide her away.

"No, it isn't," he whispered back, his arm around her shoulders only tightening more with every step. "This world hasn't been right for some time."

Matthew let out a long, heavy sigh, as he watched his friend guide his cousin away and lead her, finally, out the door of the shop. Now he just needed Lavinia to take Daisy away.

"Daisy?" Lavinia murmured, carefully approaching the kitchen maid who was still keeping vigil over William. She didn't respond, so Lavinia murmured her name again. "Daisy?"

"Hmmm?"

The girl didn't lift her head or make any other sounds, other than the one she had just made to indicate that she was aware she was being spoken to.

Lavinia glanced at Matthew, looking a little worried, before swallowing and kneeling once again by Daisy's side. "Come my dear, we should be on our way…"

"We have to bury him," Daisy whispered, her fingers still running over William's cold, pale face.

"And we will," Lavinia assured, her hands tentatively moving to Daisy's shoulders in an attempt to encourage her to stand and lead her away just as Tom had managed to do with Sybil. But Daisy wouldn't budge; she remained where she was, and despite her small size, refused to be moved.

She lifted her eyes then to Matthew's, and he momentarily taken aback by the haunted look in he saw in their depths. "I'll do it," she whispered.

Matthew paled at her words. Lavinia also seemed shocked, and quickly began to shake her head. "Daisy, come with me," she urged once more. "Let's go outside and find a place to bury William; I'm sure there are some beautiful gardens—"

"Please, Capt. Crawley," Daisy whispered, ignoring Lavinia and keeping her eyes on Matthew. "Let me do this; let me do this for my husband."

Matthew was speechless. What could he say? How could he refuse her? But the question was, could she do it? Could the sweet, small kitchen maid, hold a pistol to William's brow and pull the trigger?

Lavinia looked at him, unsure what to say or do, clearly not approving of what Daisy wanted, but by that same token, not arguing with her further about it.

He realized then that it was up to him. If he said no, and was firm, he was sure that both he and Lavinia could convince Daisy to go and leave him to the task.

But if he said yes…

Could he say yes?

If it were him, lying in William's place, who would he want to pull the final trigger?

"Please, Capt. Crawley," Daisy whispered again, her eyes shining with tears, her cheeks pink and puffy, her plea evident across her face.

He couldn't refuse her.

"Alright," he whispered, his own voice very hoarse and raw with emotion. "But I'll stay with you."

Daisy nodded her head, satisfied with this. Lavinia looked wary and slowly rose to her feet. "Are you sure?" she whispered to him. No; no he wasn't sure about anything, really. This so-called rescue mission for Tom's brother had become a nightmare, and now they would be returning to Downton with Kieran Branson and without William. No, nothing made sense anymore, and he doubted it ever would in a world such as this. So instead of answer her, he simply nodded his head, and went back to where William lay, kneeling before the lad and offering a pistol to the kitchen maid.

Outside the shop, Tom had managed to lead Sybil away, back to the car where the supplies that Lavinia and Daisy had gathered remained. He thought he could make themselves busy, that perhaps by loading the boxes and crates that both Miss Swire and the kitchen maid had gathered, it would be enough of a distraction from the tragedy that lay behind them…and that was still to come.

Yet Sybil was pacing, her arms wrapped around herself, one hand at her lips where she chewed on the fingernails of one hand, while her feet shuffled back and forth, creating a strange trench in the dust of the road.

Tom didn't know what to say. He was at a complete loss. He had never been in a situation like this. There was only one person he had cared about, one person he had looked out for, and that person was missing. In Liverpool, when all of this began, it was always him and Kieran, the Branson brothers, that was all that mattered, just looking out for themselves, and if trouble came along, no matter what group or community they had found relief with, the mantra was always the same: concentrate on your own survival; abandon the others. Family—your own flesh and blood—_that_ was what mattered. That was all that mattered.

_"You can't trust anyone but your own flesh and blood!" Kieran _had once shouted at him. _"You can't save the world, Tommy! Just accept that! But you can save yourself, and that's what we're going to do, little brother; save ourselves. WE are going to be the ones to make it out of this mess alive, you understand? _US._ And we can't let others slow us down. And we can't allow our emotions to get the better of us, do you understand?"_

It was an easy mantra to uphold when his brother was with him. But these last few weeks, he found himself troubled, because God help him he _was_ starting to care about the people around him, this strange little community of survivors hiding in a Yorkshire manor house, pretending as if nothing had happened while being completely aware that the world was different. These were the sort of people Kieran would greet with a spit on the ground, because in his eyes, they deserved to be made food for the Walkers. His brother would see opportunities to advance their cause, but he wouldn't see potential allies or friends. Tom even sometimes wondered if Kieran would have abandoned him, if he had had the chance. Maybe that was why he hadn't found his brother yet; maybe his brother didn't want to be found?

"I've known him all my life…"

Tom was shaken from his thoughts and turned his gaze to Sybil. She was staring off into the distance, but had momentarily ceased her pacing.

"When we were children," she continued. "He was just the son of one of Papa's tenant's then, but…but we would have celebrations at the house…garden parties and…and assemblies, where…where the villagers were invited to join us, and…and we were similar in age, so we would often play together…" her voice began to trail off, and Tom could see the tears falling afresh down her face.

He hadn't known William for that long, but despite the recent news about the lad knowing his brother was chained to a wall in the village, he did find that he liked him. He seemed like a good man, and no one could deny that he was brave, perhaps to the point of foolishness, but…he was certainly admirable. And it was clear, like Sybil, that William thought of others, to the point of putting them before himself, just as he had done by volunteering to go back and find Matthew the other day, or volunteering to come back and help him find Kieran, or volunteering to lead the group of them down that dark tunnel…

…Or how he purposefully lifted his girl, the kitchen maid, out of harm's way…allowing the Walker to bite him.

This was the very thing Kieran had always warned him about. You start to care for others, you open yourself up to becoming the victim.

And Tom was in danger of that. No, he was passed the danger, because he did care about others; he cared about Matthew, who in many ways was a kinder version of his brother. And he cared about Sybil…

Yes, he cared about Sybil very much. _Too much_ for his own good.

Ever since that night in the orchard, he had felt a growing tug around his heart for the girl. In the beginning he thought it was nothing more than lust; after all, she was quite pretty and he hadn't been in the company of a beautiful woman since Liverpool. But with every passing day, as he watched her and listened to her and spent time in her company, even if it were only for a few minutes, Tom was finding it more and more difficult to ignore these emotions and think of it as "simple lust" and nothing more.

And then just now, while they were in the shop, after William's attack, when he tried to pull her away from Matthew, when he wrapped his arms around her in hopes to calm her…and to comfort her as she cried…

He had held her once, after their attack at the petrol station. That time it had been out of sheer relief that they had survived. And he could say something similar about this situation; she was grieving, once again reliving the horror of having to watch a person she cared for, a friend, die in front of her. And yes, despite the cynical nature that lurked within him and that Kieran seemed to constantly feed, he did believe Sybil saw William as a friend, and not just a servant. Sybil Crawley was different, not just to other posh girls of her class, but…to any other person that he knew.

And it scared him. It scared him how…how much he had come to care for her, how deeply he cared.

And even though his brother's voice was screaming at him in his head, he never loosened his hold on her; he never let her go. He held her, he rocked her in his arms, and he allowed himself the pleasure of pressing his lips to her hair, to her brow, feeling the soft, sweet skin against mouth, and the heavenly scent of her hair against his nostrils.

Right. That was how it felt to hold her then. It felt right. And now, as they were outside the shop, waiting for the inevitable, his arms ached to hold her again, especially as he watched her pace and tremble and heard the sobs in her throat. His heart broke for her and his arms longed to hold her again. And not just that, to hold her and bring her closer to his body, to feel her head rest against his shoulder, her face burrow against his chest, before looking up at him…just as she had done when they had suggested they leave the shop. He was very aware to how close their faces were when she turned to look up at him. And he was very, very aware to how tempting it was to kiss her.

_To kiss her._ God how he wanted to kiss her. This wasn't the first time he thought such things, but now he felt the urge, the need even more so, because he had held her so close and so tightly.

She was like opium; he hadn't even tasted her yet, and yet he hopelessly was addicted.

The sudden sound of a bang filled the air.

Sybil jumped. He jumped too.

Her eyes went wide and he turned to look at him, her face growing paler by the second. His heart broke at the look, because he saw the hopeless prayer in her eyes, the wish that what she had just heard hadn't indicated what had just happened. But she knew better, and he could see that in her eyes.

Her face crumpled then, and Tom didn't hesitate. In one step, he was by her side, his arms once again enfolding her, clutching her, bringing to her to his chest, a hand tangling in the mass of brown curls that crowned her head, bringing her face to settle in the hollow of his throat. His lips kissed her brow, her temple; he said nothing, he simply held her and let her grieve a second time for the friend she had lost.

Sybil was grateful to Tom, and she clutched him, clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as she sobbed against him, pressing herself closer, burrowing herself, needing to feel his warmth, his heartbeat, needing signs of life to keep her breathing and living and hoping that despite this horrible world they now found themselves in, she would have the strength to go back to Downton and continue to live another day.

It occurred to Sybil then, and it was something that stayed with her, long after they had left the village behind. She needed him; she needed Tom just as much as she needed air to breathe.

Lavinia watched the other couple from the shop's door, her own arms moving around herself. She felt numb and cold, and she was still trembling at the haunting echo of the pistol. She swallowed and forced herself to look back, seeing Matthew sitting back and staring blankly at William's still body, and Daisy, who knelt beside her husband, pistol in one hand, the other tenderly running her fingers along his cheek…ignoring the blood that trickled from his brow.

Matthew sat there. He wasn't sure if he were in another nightmare, or back in another coma. He felt so numb he would believe either. After giving Daisy the pistol, she had leant over William's body, and with shaking hands, lifted the gun to William's brow. He waited, swallowing his emotions and nerves and trying to look stoic and brave, while at the same time trembling and worrying that she wouldn't have the strength to do this. She fidgeted with the gun, and then removed it much to Matthew's surprise, before leaning down and pressing her lips one last time to William's.

"I love you," she whispered, or so Matthew thought he had heard. She lifted the gun again, but instead of pulling the trigger like he thought, she waited.

And waited.

What was she doing? He turned to Lavinia, but she had her back to them, standing by the shop door, her arms wrapped around herself. He looked back at Daisy and noticed how she continued to stroke William's cheek and brush his hair from his face, and even though her fingers were on the trigger, she did not pull it.

Why was she waiting? He opened his mouth to question her, to even offer to take the gun back and do it for her, when he froze…as he noticed a small movement at one of William's hands.

His fingers twitched. And then he saw his chest begin to rise. Good God, was he breathing?

No…no, he realized what this was, and his eyes flew then to William's face…and he saw the lad's eyelids, which had been closed earlier…begin to flutter.

"Daisy…" he whispered, swallowing the fear that was now lodged in his throat.

She didn't say anything; she didn't even look at him. But she was aware, because she was staring at William's face, the barrel of the pistol still pressed against his brow, while she still continued to stroke his face.

"Daisy…" Matthew murmured again, his voice rising just a little. William's eyes were opening now, and they were ghostly pale, opaque even.

They were the eyes of a dead man.

William opened his mouth…and a strange, deep, inhuman sound came forth.

"Daisy!" Matthew hissed, as the creature that was once William looked around and focused on the kitchen maid hovering above him, before opening his mouth as if he were eager to take a bite out of the arm that was holding the pistol.

"Goodbye," she murmured to the creature that had been her husband.

She pulled the trigger. And the movements stopped.

* * *

Daisy and Sybil sat huddled together in the backseat of the Renault that Tom drove. Matthew drove the Rolls-Royce, and Lavinia sat next to him.

The sky was getting dark, and any hope of continuing the search for Kieran had to be put to rest. Tom didn't argue, he simply nodded his head and went to fetch the Renault which they had left near the constable's station.

They buried William near a grove of elm trees, just a few feet away from the shop. Matthew had wanted to bury him near the place where he had buried Mrs. Bird and Molesley, but it was too far away and they needed to leave the village as soon as they could.

They all helped in burial, and as they worked Tom surprised all of them by singing something in Latin, something haunting and mournful that Matthew could only assume it was a song to honor the dead. Sybil murmured the Lord's Prayer when they had finished, and all of them joined in unison. Daisy knelt at the ground, kissed her fingers before pressing them against the earth…and then broke down completely, crumpling into a ball and sobbing. Sybil and Lavinia knelt down and hugged her, and Tom and Matthew took several deep breaths, before softly murmuring the importance of heading back to the house.

And so here they were. Driving back to Downton, and feeling completely hollow.

"I…I want to thank you," Matthew murmured, turning to Lavinia. "For all that you did back there."

Lavinia seemed surprised, but he wasn't sure if that was because of his words, or because that he had chosen to break the silence. Either way, she offered a small smile and murmured, "It was my pleasure," before turning her head once again to gaze at the passing countryside.

She was an extraordinary woman, Miss Lavinia Swire. He had once entertained the thought of…of giving his heart to her.

But he realized, especially after returning to Downton, that his heart had always belonged to the dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty that was the eldest daughter to the Earl of Grantham.

"Do you think they'll have been worried?" Lavinia asked, as the house finally came into view.

Matthew didn't know how to answer that. Mary had been extremely worried when he had announced that he would go to help Tom find his brother, but then after their kiss, she had become very cold and distant and quickly disappeared. Was she waiting and worrying for him? Did he fill her thoughts the way she filled his?

He would soon have his answer.

Both the Rolls-Royce and the Renault pulled up the drive, and even before they reached the door, several people were pouring out, a combination of both upstairs and downstairs.

"OH THANK GOD!" Anna cried, rushing forward to the Rolls-Royce and smiling at both Lavinia and Matthew. "We were so worried!"

Robert came rushing forward then, bursting passed Carson and Mrs. Hughes who had followed right behind Anna, and went straight for Sybil, who hadn't even had the chance to climb out of the car, before embracing her. "Oh thank heaven, thank heaven!" he gasped, holding her so tightly.

Sybil didn't bother holding back her sniffles, and clutched at her father, grateful to feel his embrace. She lifted her eyes and smiled through her tears at the sight of her sisters; Edith came rushing forward then to hold her, while Mary whispered her name, and took several steps forward but stopped…and stared ahead at Matthew.

"Mary…" Matthew whispered, looking back at her, and then feeling his jaw set as Sir Richard emerged from the doorway, his hand moving around Mary's shoulder.

"Where's William?"

Everyone seemed to freeze then at the sound of the housekeeper's voice. She looked at Matthew and then at Tom and then at the others. "And…and Mr. Branson's brother?"

Tom slammed the door shut to the Renault and began to move away from the car. Mrs. Hughes' brow furrowed and then she looked again at Matthew for some sort of confirmation on what had happened, and then her eyes fell on Daisy.

And once again, the kitchen maid began to sob, before flying to the housekeeper's arms.

Robert looked at the crying kitchen maid and then turned his gaze to Matthew. "William…he…he…" he couldn't finish the sentence, but Robert understood and closed his eyes, nodding his head sadly.

"Sybil?"

A new voice filled the air, and everyone turned to look. Matthew frowned as he saw three strange looking men stand at the doorway. No, no one of the men he had seen before, a man who met his eyes and then looked away. He couldn't remember the man's name, but he remembered him; didn't he once come to Downton with a Turkish gentleman? But who were the other two? One was smoking a cigar, standing off to the side and not saying anything, while the other, a very tall, lean man, with black hair, came down the steps of the house to the drive, and stopped just short of sweeping his cousin up into his arms.

Sybil stared at the man and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Larry?"

The man laughed and grinned and then did that very thing, sweeping Sybil up off her feet and hugging her, much to the dismay of the others, including Sybil.

Matthew's eyes flew to Tom, and saw the Irishman's fists clench as he took in the sight.

"W-w-what are you doing here?" Sybil gasped, pushing on the forearms of the man who was holding her.

The man didn't seem to mind; in fact he only chuckled before finally resettling her on her feet. "Oh come now, Sybil, is that any way to greet your fiancée?"

A gasp went up from several around them, including Sybil. Matthew's eyes went wide and he looked to Robert, wondering who on earth this man—all of these men—were and where they had come from? He then turned again to look at Tom.

But the Irishman had disappeared.

* * *

_Just to answer a question that was asked of me in a previous chapter; when a Walker bites someone, they become infected. However it all comes down to the severity of the wound into how long it takes for the transformation to happen. Also, for those that are fans of The Walking Dead, which I'm basing most of my "zombie-lore" from with this chapter, in *this* world, you only become Walkers if you are bitten by a Walker; end of story. Hope despite the sadness, you enjoyed this chapter! ONE MORE WILL BE COMING SOON!_


	30. Confession

_This is the longest chapter I've ever written for anything, but I don't regret it, I think every scene needed to be written and included, even if that did make this massive-and hopefully you will agree!_

_HERE IT IS FOLKS! The final chapter before the May hiatus! In many ways, I think of this story like episodes of an actual TV show (go figure!) and by that same thinking, I think of this chapter like a "season finale", and that's how I would ask you to look at it-a big season finale for right now, but one that will get picked up again when June rolls around._

_Thank you again for reading and for all the follows and reviews! I'm so glad that this story, which once began as an odd "crackfic" idea, has taken off and grown to be loved by so many. Thank you for reading, and I'll see you all in June (I'll still be writing my other fics, so please consider checking those out too ;o)) THANKS!_

* * *

_Chapter Thirty_

"**Confession"**

He had been waiting all day for the knock on his door. He was surprised it had waited until after the sun was down for it to come. After the attack in the library (and having been forced to reveal that was not as ignorant as he was trying to let on about the whereabouts of Mr. Branson's brother) Thomas fled to his room and waited for Mr. Carson or even perhaps his Lordship, to come and have a go at him.

But nothing happened.

He sat huddled in his room, unsure if he should try to pack in case he was sacked and booted off the property or if he should just lie low and wait. A part of him even considered sneaking out before anyone tried to find him, but in the end his own cowardice about the world beyond the "safety" of the house got the better of him, and so here he waited, his ears listening for the thunder of footsteps and his eyes fixed on the door, watching the handle and waiting for it to turn.

But nothing happened. Till now.

The knock sounded quick and frantic, but it was also light and quiet, as if whoever the messenger was didn't want anyone else to know they were there. Which could really only mean one person…

A sigh of relief escaped his lungs as he opened the door and saw the very person he had hoped to see. "Are they back?"

Sarah O'Brien glanced down the corridor to make sure no one was nearby. She knew Thomas had been hiding up here and avoiding anyone else. She knew he wouldn't be aware of what she and everyone else had just learned. "Aye, they're back," she muttered.

Thomas stiffened. "And?"

She knew to what he was referring. "They didn't find him."

A massive sigh escaped his lips, followed by a sag in his shoulders. He couldn't begin to explain the relief he felt at such news. Then he began to process the information. "Wait—what do you mean, they didn't 'find' him?" Did that mean Kieran Branson was still out there? That he was still…alive?

Miss O'Brien glanced down the corridor once again before explaining. "They found a hand."

"A HAND!?"

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed.

"What do you mean they found 'a hand'?"

"What does it sound like?" she groaned. "They went to the place where you chained that nutter, and all they found was a hand!"

Thomas' stomach twisted at the thought. Was that all that they left of him then? Just a hand? He actually felt sorry for the poor bastard.

"They think he cut it off himself."

Thomas' eyes flew back to Miss O'Brien's. "Wait—you mean that…that he wasn't—"

"They found traces of blood that led them back to the hospital…and while Capt. Crawley didn't go into great detail, I gather that there was enough 'evidence', if you'd like to call it that, to indicate that Mr. Branson's brother is still out there somewhere, just missing a hand."

Thomas' stomach twisted a second time, but now it was for apprehension, rather than disgust. _He's still out there…and he's going to make good on his threat, I just know it!_

"And…and Mr. Branson?"

"I'm assuming you mean his Lordship's 'chauffeur'?" Miss O'Brien groaned. "After what happened with you earlier today, Mr. Carson says that he's been 'banished' to the chauffeur's cottage—where he belongs, if you ask me—or so he'll be told when he makes a reappearance."

"WHAT?" Thomas stared at the lady's maid in horror. "What do you mean 'makes a reappearance'? Where is he?" That was just what he needed, TWO mad Irishmen wanting to see him skinned alive.

"Not sure, really," she sighed, as if his fears meant nothing to her. "I was with her Ladyship when they returned; heard it from Ethel of all people that they were back. Knew her Ladyship would want me to get her news as soon as they returned, but when I got there I noticed that Mr. Branson had disappeared; not sure why exactly, but he did make it back. It was chaos then; Capt. Crawley demanding to know who these other men were—"

"Other men?" Thomas asked in confusion.

"Yes! They've been here since midafternoon!"

"How was I supposed to know that?" Thomas growled. "I've been in here all day, remember?" he rolled his eyes. "_WHO_ are these men?" _And how many of them are there?_

"Do you remember Mr. Napier?"

Thomas blanked for a moment, but yes, he remembered the gentleman. He was handsome, and looked rather dashing in his red hunting jacket. But what he remembered the most about the man was the Turkish gentleman who had accompanied him to Downton that one day, six years ago. Did Mr. Napier know about that, he wondered?

"Her Ladyship was attacked during a stroll—"

"By Mr. Napier?"

"NO you idiot, by Walkers!" she rolled her eyes. "Mr. Napier and his friends helped me to save her!"

"His friends?"

She nodded her head. "Two other gentlemen, all three of them army officers; a man with a moustache who goes by the name Maj. Charles Bryant, and another ghost from the past, specifically Lady Sybil's, a Lt. Larry Grey."

Thomas arched his eyebrows at this. The Greys had been close friends of the Crawleys at one point, although they hadn't been seen a great deal during the War, and certainly not since the War had ended and all hell broke loose on the world.

"So we're now stuck with these three because no doubt his Lordship is overwhelmingly grateful for their help," he muttered, ignoring Miss O'Brien's sour face. "Fan-bloody-tastic." And somewhere out there were two men with the name Branson, each lying in wait to have his hide. "Well, anything else I should know?"

The question was said in sarcasm, but instead of receiving a sarcastic response, he noticed how a shadow came over his friend's face. There was something else…and whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Actually…" she murmured, pausing for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to best say what she had to say. She then shrugged her shoulders, realizing there really was no easy way to say this. "William didn't make it."

* * *

"William?"

Anna nodded her head, biting her lip in hopes that it would keep her tears at bay. Her cheeks were puffy and her eyes hurt from the tears that had stung them as soon as she had learned the news. Now here she was, with the sad task of delivering it to her fiancée.

John Bates had been sleeping most of the day, but awoke with a start when he heard a wild scream fill the hall down below, followed quickly by the sound of hysterical crying. It had been Mrs. Patmore, according to what Anna told him. She had come up from the kitchens, eager to embrace both William and Daisy, as well as to see whatever it was that they had found in the village…and upon learning the truth about what had happened to poor William…

She was inconsolable.

Anna wrapped her arms around herself, still trembling as she recalled the horrible news that Capt. Crawley tried to calmly explain to all of them, despite the cook's hysteria. Mrs. Hughes had to lead her out, but poor Mrs. Patmore had fallen several times, as if the grief caused her legs to give out. It took four of them—Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson, herself, and his Lordship, to get Mrs. Patmore downstairs. Mrs. Hughes was with her now, trying to ease the poor woman, she explained.

John sighed. "Poor William," he murmured, still shocked by the news.

Anna nodded her head. "I…I mean…" she was struggling with putting her words into sentences, trying to so hard not to cry. "I've known him for so long," she whispered. "He was just a lad when he started here, barely fifteen—" her hand went to her mouth, as if the gesture would keep the sobs at bay. "And he was so eager, do you remember? So eager to enlist…"

"William had more bravery than an entire battalion," John murmured, trying to offer a comforting smile for his fiancée. He hadn't known William as long as her, but he had grown close to the young man in his years at Downton, especially during that time before the War broke out, when William was trying to win Daisy's affections from Thomas.

Anna took a deep breath, as if finally getting her emotions under control. John saw a fire in her eyes, and realized quickly that her grief had given way to anger. "It should have been Thomas, not William!"

"Anna—"

"Oh don't even try to defend him, John; you of all people know the deviousness Thomas is capable of!"

"I'm not defending him," he tried to reason, sitting up a little straighter in bed, or as straight as he could, with his leg awkwardly stretched out in front of him. "I am defending _you_, however; I'll not see you sink to his level."

She made a face, but also managed to give him a tiny smile. Still, she was angry as she thought about how it was Thomas' fault that Mr. Branson's brother had been chained and left to die, and how it was Thomas who had clearly intended on putting all the blame on William, who he no doubt manipulated into going along with his plan to chain the other Mr. Branson. And Thomas, the no good coward, who had snuck off to his room like a dog with his tail between his legs, while William valiantly volunteered to take Capt. Crawley and Mr. Branson back to the village. Thomas was the one who committed these vile acts, and yet somehow, he was the one who didn't have to pay for those mistakes, while young, sweet William did.

It wasn't right. It was unjust in so many ways. And she was so tempted to turn on her heel and march upstairs to his room and finish what Mr. Branson had started in the library earlier.

"Hey…" she looked up to see her fiancée looking at her with concerned, but loving eyes. "Come here, please," he asked, holding his arms out to her.

He knew what he was doing, because how could she refuse such an offer? Thomas was saved again by the wrath of another, and if the vile footman knew what was good for him, he'd thank Mr. Bates when he next saw him, which she knew would happen on the 12th of never.

With a sigh, but a smile, she came to John's side and wasted no time kicking her shoes off and crawling up onto the bed next to him, her head finding that familiar place on his chest, resting just beneath his throat so his chin could rest atop her hair. Another sigh escaped her lips, this one of contentment, as she felt his strong arms enfold her. Despite the chaos of the outside world, here she could find some semblance of peace, in the embrace of her beloved Mr. Bates.

They didn't say anything. They simply held one another and silently grieved the loss of their friend. They laid like that for a long time, and at one point John thought perhaps Anna had fallen asleep, but he was surprised when he heard her voice murmur, "he married them."

He frowned and with gentle fingers, cupped her cheek and tilted her face up. "Who?"

"Capt. Crawley," she explained, her own hand rising to cover his. "Miss Swire said something about it; about how Daisy asked Capt. Crawley to marry them before…" her voice stopped and John could see that she was fighting back the tears.

He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her brow. "That was very kind of him."

Anna nodded her head and lifted her eyes once more to his. "Perhaps he can do the same for us?"

He didn't say anything. He understood her wish, because it was a similar one that he wished as well. But he also knew that army captains didn't have that same authority the way ship captains did, yet at the same time, did it really matter? Capt. Crawley had done Daisy and William a very kind service, one that he knew would have filled the younger man's last moments with nothing but happiness. But the circumstances for Daisy and William were different; William was dying. And God help him, John Bates did not want to be lying on his deathbed the moment he finally married Anna Smith. And with that being said, even though the courts and government had fallen, he still hoped that they could find a vicar or judge or something to perform the ceremony, just so he could be assured, in his own heart and conscious that yes, indeed, he and Anna were husband and wife.

…Even if that did mean, from a technical perspective, that he was committing bigamy.

Another moment of silence passed. Anna didn't question the subject further, because she knew how he felt. She knew that he wanted someone "proper" to marry them, and even though she wasn't an expert on the authority of British army officers, she knew that the authority to perform marriages wasn't one of them, not unless they had been ordained outside the field. It frustrated her, she could not deny, but she knew he wanted this because he loved her, and he didn't want anyone to argue that they weren't properly married.

"Where is Daisy now?" he softly asked, breaking the silence.

Anna sighed and closed her eyes. "She retreated to her room, as soon as she was able," she murmured. "Before coming back here, I actually went to her room and tried to coax her out, thinking it would be good that she be around other people, but…" she sighed.

"But she won't see anyone," he finished.

Against his chest, she nodded her head. "I can't imagine what she's going through," Anna whispered, burrowing herself a little closer to his side. While Daisy had never been as open with her feelings for William as William had been for her, Anna had always suspected that the kitchen maid held a soft spot for the former footman. "No…" she paused, swallowing the emotional lump in her throat. "No, I can, actually…because I've had far too many nightmares of something like that happening to you!" She couldn't hold it back any longer; the sob escaped and she turned her face into his chest and cried.

John's hold on her only tightened, especially as her body began to shake as she wept. Tears were running down his cheeks too, tears for William, for Daisy who had lost a husband, for Mrs. Patmore who had lost a boy that she had come to regard as a son, for all of them who loved William, who were proud to work beside him and call him friend. And he wept for Anna as well, for not being able to give her the one thing she craved from him.

"I love you, John Bates," Anna sniffled, lifting her head so her eyes could meet his. "And in my heart and mind you're already my husband." She lifted her hand again to his face and stroked it with loving fingers. "And quite frankly, I've seen too much sadness and heartbreak in this house as of late."

He looked back at her tenderly, and took the hand that was touching his cheek and brought it to his lips. "I'll make you a deal…_Mrs. Bates_," he said with a smile which thankfully also brought a smile to her lips. "Once I'm back on my feet…and walking again…we'll get this settled."

She leaned up and stared back at him. "Are you serious?"

His heart broke a little, because he knew he was responsible for causing that doubt. But he smiled more than anything because he could see the hope in her eyes, and hear it in her voice. "I am," he answered. "I'll go and conduct my own search, if I must. But that will be my only priority once I've recovered; marrying you."

Her smile only grew, but she started to shake her head. "But surely now, in such circumstances as these, Capt. Crawley or even his Lordship—"

"One week," he held up a finger. "After I recover, give me one week to find a judge or a clergyman or something; someone whom the law would recognize as the 'proper authority' for conducting marriages…and if that week runs out and I still haven't found anyone 'proper', then yes, I will return and we will ask his Lordship or Capt. Crawley or even Mr. Carson to do the ceremony for us; I have a feeling they all would be more than willing."

Anna laughed; the first laugh she had released since the others had returned and announced the horrible news about William. It was a compromise; while she was more than happy to have any one of those people "perform the ceremony" she knew that it was important to John to try and find someone with "legitimate" authority, or to at least make the effort. But either way, he was promising her that in a few weeks, they _would_ finally be married, one way or another.

However, she frowned at something he had said, and he noticed that frown and looked concerned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Well, you talk as if it's your journey to make, to find this judge or priest," she laced their fingers together. "When you know for a fact that that's not true at all."

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "How foolish of me."

"Indeed, Mr. Bates," she grinned, leaning up until her lips were only a breath away from his. "We're a team, you and I; and you will make no journeys without me."

* * *

Robert groaned and rubbed the back of his neck as he poured himself a rather generous glass of scotch. He needed it after the day this house had experienced.

By some miracle, his beloved library was empty, thank God. He was afraid he would run into one of the house's newly arrived "guests", or that Matthew would be waiting, wanting to continue the rather heated "discussion" the two of them had been sharing not very long ago about those "guests".

After Matthew and Sybil and the others had returned, and after the truth of what had happened to poor William had been revealed, the house was in an uproar. Mrs. Patmore had flown into hysterics and it took himself plus several others to help her back downstairs. Whatever meal she had been trying to prepare for all of them had been forgotten, and so they made do on perhaps the most meager supper they had ever eaten in Downton's history.

But the questions began before the meal, and continued throughout. And ironically, it was him being asked the most questions, even though he hadn't journeyed to the village and encountered what the others saw.

_"Who are these men, Robert?" Matthew asked; there was a note of wariness in his voice, as well as something else; anger?_

_ "You've met Mr. Napier," he began. "You remember him, surely?"_

_ "I do, but why is he here? And who are his companions?" Once again, the tone of his voice had an accusatory edge to it, and Robert found that he did not appreciate it._

_ "The shorter of the two gentlemen is Maj. Charles Bryant, who I have also just met for the first time, but who is a friend of Mr. Napier's. And the other man is someone that we do know, Lt. Larry Grey—"_

_ "The man who embraced Sybil?" Matthew interrupted, and there was no denying the edge to Matthew's voice. "And what did he mean that he was Sybil's fiancée?"_

Robert groaned and took a deep drink from his glass. That wasn't good timing on Larry's part, but he couldn't quite blame the man, after all, it was the first time he had seen Sybil since the War.

The library doors opened suddenly, and Robert looked up from his desk, ready to roar at anyone who dared to interrupt him now and disturb what sanctuary he could find—even his own mother. But the person who entered wasn't one of his newly acquired "guests", or any of the servants, or the Dowager Countess, or Matthew come to ask more questions and continue the argument they had started before Robert threw up his hands in frustration and left to find scotch and solace in the library.

No, it was in fact his youngest, who he had scarcely seen since their return and since Larry had made his announcement.

"Papa?"

"Sybil…" he greeted, smiling and genuinely happy to see her, despite his efforts of trying to escape everyone else. He had been so worried when she had gone to the village; Cora kept trying to reassure him that their daughter had proven to be more than capable of handling herself with those monsters, but still…she would always be a little girl in his eyes, and it was a father's wish to want to protect his little girl and take on her battles for her. When they had returned, Robert did not hesitate; he drew Sybil into his arms and was grateful that she was hugging him back (they seemed to argue so much these days). But it was while he held her and felt her sob against his chest that he learned the fate of poor William and what had happened while they were in the village.

And then Larry Grey had stepped in, and everything went mad.

"I've just come from Mama's room," she explained as she shut the doors behind her.

Robert smiled at this, although it was a sad smile. Was he not capable of doing anything right? Of protecting any of his loved ones? When Edith had rushed back to the house to inform him that Cora had been attacked, Robert felt as if someone had come up to him and punched him so hard in the chest that his lungs had collapsed. He truly couldn't breathe. And all he could think about was the stupid argument they had had before. But thank God Mr. Napier and his companions had been nearby; for that reason alone, Robert felt compelled to offer them shelter (and unlike the Irishman who had come to Sybil's rescue in the orchard, Robert knew Evelyn Napier, and felt a great deal easier in trusting him and his companions).

"And how is she?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded pleasant. When they brought Cora back, O'Brien quickly ushered her to their room, and fussed and hovered around her the way a mother hen would to its chick. After Edith had told him what had happened, he had run to their room, taking the stairs two and at time, and didn't stop until he was on his knees in front of her, grasping her hand and kissing it over and over, murmuring how sorry he was for their quarrel, begging for her forgiveness, telling her that he loved her, in between every "are you alright? Are you sure you're alright?"

"She's tired," Sybil explained, her arms moving around herself. "O'Brien is with her now."

"Good, good," he murmured, more to himself than to his daughter. Although he had never really cared for his wife's lady's maid (she did seem rather 'obsessed' sometimes, in her care for Cora) he was grateful to her and knew that Cora was in good hands and would be well looked after. "I'm sure she was very happy to see you back," he said, lifting his eyes once again to Sybil and putting on a smile.

Sybil didn't return it, but she did nod her head in acknowledgement to his words. "I told her about William," she whispered.

Robert sighed and looked down at his scotch. Poor William; he had served this family very well, and it was a shame that they couldn't give him a proper hero's burial back at Downton.

"Edith is with Granny," Sybil continued, as if answering a question Robert had asked. He lifted his eyes and noticed how his youngest was moving across the room to where he kept the scotch and brandy. "I'm not sure where Mary has gone; perhaps to talk to Mr. Napier; perhaps to talk to Matthew. I just know that she's avoiding Sir Richard."

Robert lifted a brow at this. He recalled Cora's comments from earlier, about her worries for Mary, now that Matthew was back. He also recalled his own thoughts, how, if truth be told, he wouldn't mind if Mary chose to end her engagement to Sir Richard—yet that would make things extremely awkward, considering the world in which they lived.

He was brought out of these thoughts by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, and his eyes went wide as he realized Sybil was pouring herself a large glass of scotch! "Sybil—" he began to protest, but his daughter didn't stop. Instead, she took the glass and without hesitation, took a great gulp of the liquor, coughing just a little because she wasn't used to it. "Sybil," he began again, putting down his own glass and walking over to her with a deep frown, but once her coughs seemed to be under control, she took another long drink. "Sybil, stop that!" He tried to take the glass out of her hands, but she lifted an arm and shoved his hands away, before turning and looking at him furiously.

"What is Larry Grey doing here, Papa?" she asked, accusation dripping in her voice.

Robert's eyes went wide at the question, as well as the tone in which she spoke. "He was part of Mr. Napier's company; they served in the same regiment, along with Maj. Bryant, and we are grateful to all of them for saving your mother—"

"_WHY_ did he say that?" Sybil accused, slamming her glass down on the desk, causing the scotch within it to slosh onto its surface.

"Sybil, calm down—"

"He said we were _engaged_, Papa!" her voice was rising by the second. "He referred to himself as my fiancée!"

"Sybil, calm down!" he repeated, his own voice rising slightly with hopes to get through to her. She was angry, that was quite clear. And she was never one who cared for surprises, and he remembered when Larry made his little "announcement", closing his eyes and groaning at the timing of it all. "Let me explain—"

"Is there anything to explain?" she interrupted again, squaring her shoulders and looking up at him with blazing eyes. "Larry has never spoken to me about an engagement—in fact, I wasn't even aware that he and I were courting!"

"You both seemed to have enjoyed one another's company at your ball, and I thought you liked Larry? You always seemed to get on as children—"

"PAPA!" she threw her hands up into the air in utter frustration. "Dancing and being polite at one's coming out ball does not equal a courtship! Nor do years of playing together as children! Now please, answer me, _WHY_ does Larry think we are engaged?"

Robert sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting off the headache that threatened. "At the garden party…the day when we received word about the War…" he began. "Larry approached me, and…and told me that he was desperately in love with you and asked me right then and there for permission to marry you."

"WHAT?!"

"Sybil, lower your voice!"

But she was most irate. "DID YOU SAY 'YES'?"

"NO!" he hissed, glancing at the door, half expecting it to burst open and see someone—including the infamous Mr. Grey—burst in and try to find out what all the commotion was about. "No, I did not," he answered honestly. "I was stunned, to be sure; I was never given the impression that you liked him in that sort of way—you were friendly and polite, yes, just as your mother raised you to be, but…" he sighed and retreated back to the place where he had left his own glass, needing a drink very badly.

"But what?" she asked, her voice a little calmer, but there was still an angry edge to it.

"I didn't want to appear rude, just in case…in case you had been giving him some sign that you were interested—"

"PAPA!"

"What I said!" he was quick to continue before she began shouting at him again. "What I said was that I needed to speak with you, and…and that I would consider it."

"Oh, Papa…" she groaned.

"I was surprised, Sybil, and I did not encourage the man! I did say to him that I thought you were perhaps too young, having only just turned eighteen and having only just had your first season. I also thought it may perhaps appear a little awkward to have you engaged and married before Edith…or Mary, now that I think about it, of course that was when I still believed she and Matthew had a chance," he muttered into his glass, before lifting it to his lips for a long drink of his own.

"But you didn't discourage him…"

"I didn't know how you felt! And I had every intention of talking to you about the subject!" he finished his glass and then set it back down. "But then we received the message that we were at war, and…and in all honesty, I completely forgot about the subject."

"Well _clearly_, Larry did not!" she muttered, finishing the rest of the contents in her own glass, swallowing the liquid down and trying very hard not to cough, as well as to keep her temper at bay.

Larry Grey. Of all the faces from her past, his was the last she ever thought to see. The Greys were somewhat close friends of her families, at least her grandmother was best friend's with Lord Merton's mother; they had both come out in society the same year. For this closeness, she assumed, Papa asked Lord Merton to be Mary's godfather. They had a son and daughter, and when she was a child, Sybil remembered the Greys visiting and playing with both Larry and Mariah, as any child would with other children, but she would hardly call either of them "dear friends". The visits became less and less frequent as they grew up, and she hadn't seen Larry for quite some time until her sisters began to come out into society. He always attended their balls, because the Greys were always invited, and even though Sybil was "too young" for such an affair, her mother thought there was no harm in her having one or two dances, before returning upstairs. Larry had been her first dance partner (besides her father) and he seemed pleasant enough, but she never thought of him as anything more than just a friend of the family. It wasn't until her own ball, however, that her feelings for Larry Grey changed. And they were not positive feelings.

He insisted on dancing her first dance. He hovered around her all evening, tried to dominate the conversation, no matter the subject. His hand always seemed to find its way to her back, and more than once did Sybil try to shrink away from his touch. But it was during a rather vigorous dance, that Larry's hands wandered a little too far down her back, until he was cupping her rump. She shoved against his chest, but he took the gesture not as one to let go and walk away—but as a challenge!

Suddenly, Sybil found herself out on the balcony, just beyond the London ballroom, her back against a stone column, and Larry's lips sloppily running over hers and her neck. She practically had to knee him in the groin to get him to release her! She warned him not to ever touch her again, but instead of apologizing, he declared that she _"ignited such passion within him, and that his thoughts were constantly consumed by her beauty"._ Pretty words indeed, if spoken by anyone else. That was the last time she had contact with Larry Grey; as the summer progressed, she knew that the Greys would be attending the garden party, but she did her best to avoid them as much as possible, and thankfully, Larry did keep his distance.

But now she knew why. Now she knew that he had been spending that time at the garden party talking to her father, asking for her hand in marriage, and insisting that they were in love! The thought of the man made her stomach turn, and even though his hands "behaved" themselves when he had embraced her earlier, her skin was still crawling at the memory of his touch.

Yet the thing that had bothered her the most about that encounter wasn't so much the fact that he had embraced her, but the fact that he had done so, and said that they were engaged…in front of Tom.

Tom…who was now missing.

She lied to her father upon entering the library. She hadn't just returned from her mother's room, but in truth, had been looking for the Irishman, hoping to find him, hoping to explain that it was all a massive misunderstanding, that she wasn't engaged, that she didn't even like Larry Grey…

_But why would he care?_

What was she to Tom Branson? What was he to her? Were they even friends? She hoped so; she hadn't felt this close to someone since Gwen had died—closer, perhaps. The two of them had been through a great deal, and…and she couldn't deny that she thought the man very handsome, but this was more than just physical attraction.

Tom Branson was like a second part of her, a missing half. And…and when he had held her earlier, when he had rocked her against his solid frame, and she had felt his lips in her hair, against her brow, her temple, when he had tried to calm her in the tunnel after the encounter with the rat, when he spoke up for her, when he defended her, even when he argued with her about going first…

Something was happening. She felt it deep in her heart. And it upset her to think that Larry's presence could somehow ruin that.

_I need to find him; oh please, please, he wouldn't just leave without saying anything, surely?_

But so far her search had not been successful. So far no one seemed to know where he had gone.

"Sybil…" she lifted her eyes to her father, who was looking down at her with some concern. "I never gave Larry my blessing; clearly this is all a great misunderstanding. If you don't wish to marry him, then you don't have to—"

"Oh Papa," Sybil groaned, stepping away and moving across the room, as if she were preparing to leave. "Look around you! Look at the world we're living in! You speak as if you're about to ring the Times and ask them to remove the announcement from the paper before it goes to print!"

"Sybil—"

"Just keep him away from me," she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Robert frowned, and felt his body stiffen at her words. "Sybil…did something happen between you and—?"

"I never once encouraged Larry Grey or gave him any understanding that I was 'infatuated' with him."

"Sybil," he began to walk towards her, fear rising in his heart. Had that cad done something? Had he just invited a fox into the henhouse? "Sybil, I will do what I can, but if there's something I should know—"

She swallowed and shook her head, her cheeks turning pink. "I'm grateful for what Mr. Grey did for Mama, and if you would be so kind, please pass my thanks onto him for that. But also please make it quite clear the next time you speak to him, that he is quite mistaken; there is no engagement and there never will be one." And with that, Robert watched in both concern and confusion as his youngest left the library, the click of the door echoing the room in an ominous tone.

* * *

He had caught her eye the second he entered the house. But more importantly, it seemed…she had caught his.

Maj. Charles Bryant had arrived just in time, as far as Ethel was concerned. She was getting tired of the hot-tempered Irishman, who didn't seem to pay her any notice when they were in the Servant's Hall, (not to mention Mrs. Hughes did her best to keep them separated as well). Perhaps Mr. Branson was like Thomas? That could be the only explanation, surely; the man had to be blind and deaf not to notice the signals she was giving him!

But Maj. Bryant had smiled at her…and held her gaze when he first entered the house. And even after she turned to go and begin preparing his room, and the rooms of his companions, she swore she could feel his eyes on her.

"It'll be nice, having officers in the house again," she murmured to Anna as they went about the task of making the beds for Downton's newest arrivals.

Anna gave her stern look of warning. When she had her head turned, Ethel poked her tongue out at her. Spoil sport. Not everyone was lucky like Anna; not everyone had a man in the house. She didn't understand the head housemaid, sometimes. She had a fiancée! And granted, he would be no use to any woman right now in the condition he was in presently, but still…how could Anna remain on their side of the servant's quarters, and not fool around with her Mr. Bates? Unless the head housemaid had found a way, but Ethel doubted it.

No; _saintly_ Anna would never do such a thing.

Right now Ethel was on her way upstairs, told by Mr. Carson who had seen her lingering outside the billiard room, where Maj. Bryant and one of his friends resided. She had been pretending to "dust" some of the furniture in the corridor just outside, until Mr. Carson came and gave her a stern look (one that mirrored Anna's from earlier) and told her to go to bed. She mumbled her assent, and turned to go, giving the billiard room one last look of longing, before turning to leave.

But she hadn't gone but four steps, before she heard a cough behind her.

A male cough.

She turned and felt her cheeks grow warm as Maj. Bryant stood there in the doorway, smiling at her, his eyes twinkling. Lord he has beautiful eyes…and look at his teeth! White and sparkling…

"Um…forgive me, you are…?"

Her cheeks reddened even more. "Ethel, sir," she answered quickly, before curtsying as one in her position did.

"Ethel…" he repeated, and she thought her knees would buckle at the wonderful way her name sounded on his lips. "Ethel, I was in my room earlier, and I must confess, the fabric of the sheets…well…I'm not quite sure how to put this, I don't mean to be rude…" his voice trailed off and he gave her a lopsided grin, one that caused her knees to feel even weaker.

"Is there something wrong with the sheets, sir?" she asked, taking a step closer and clutching her feather duster to her chest. "Perhaps too much starch was used?"

He blushed then, and Ethel couldn't help but smile at the wonderful way his face looked. So handsome, especially with that smile!

"I'm afraid you've found my weakness," he sighed. "But please don't tell anyone; wouldn't want them to think that a major in the British Army has delicate skin," he chuckled.

She found herself blushing and giggling too. "Would you…would you like me to change them for you?"

His eyes widened, and his blush seemed to deepen as well. "Oh Lord, I couldn't ask you to do that—I mean, it's far too late—"

"I wouldn't mind!" she said a little too eagerly, and quickly looked down at her feet, clutching the duster a little tighter.

She thought she heard him chuckle and she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes and saw that he that melt-worthy smile again. "Well…that would be very kind of you, actually."

She couldn't help beaming at his compliment and once again gave a little curtsey. "I'll see to it right away."

He grinned and nodded his head in approval. "Thank you, Ethel; that would be lovely."

* * *

Thank God for Mr. Napier.

He was a good man, and very observant. Mary still owed him a great deal for the kindness he had showed her all those years ago in London, when he had sought her out to tell her about the Pemuk scandal…and Edith's part to play in it. It was a shame, in some ways, that she couldn't return the man's affections; he would make any woman a fine husband to be sure. But she would have made him a very ill-suited wife, and so in truth, Mr. Napier was the lucky one to have got away.

Still, she owed him her thanks again, this time for distracting Sir Richard and keeping him busy, allowing her the opportunity to sneak away at last and speak to Matthew alone.

_I'm going to have to confront him,_ she thought wearily. Her engagement to Sir Richard was becoming a nightmare; ever since they had returned from the village after the debacle at the Downton hospital, the man practically clung to her side, constantly hovering, and always questioning her, even with a simple look. _He doesn't trust me_, she thought to herself. _He believes I'm still in love with Matthew…_

_Well aren't you?_

She paused and swallowed the lump in her throat. It was a question she had been asking herself a great deal lately, especially after he had kissed her…

_After YOU BOTH had kissed. Because you DID respond, and quite eagerly._

Yes, yes she had. And it had been as beautiful as she remembered. As well as devastating.

She paused and leaned back against a nearby wall, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, her fingers running over the surface of her lips which still tingled with the memory of his kiss. All his kisses.

_Why did I let him go? Why didn't I march to his mother's house, demand that he come out and speak to me? Why did I let my pride get the better of me? WHY?_

She swallowed, trying to get her emotions under control, trying to keep her heart from bursting through her chest at the way it was beating so rapidly. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then pushed herself away from the wall and continued walking towards the open terrace door, where Carson had told her he had last seen Matthew disappear. She wasn't sure if she would be relieved or terrified to find him there…but found him, she did.

He had his back to her, and was staring off into the distance. A cloud of smoke blew away in the breeze, and she could smell the familiar scent of her father's cigars. Papa had offered one to all the men, as a means of paying respect to William. Matthew muttered his thanks, but instead of lingering with the other men, she noticed him get up and leave the room, while she, Miss Swire, Edith and Granny made their way into the drawing room. When the men returned to the drawing room, she stayed close to Mr. Napier, trying to get "reacquainted" with him, and asking him all sorts of questions about where he and his friends had been during all this time. Sir Richard hovered closely, but out of respect, listened to Mr. Napier and offered a pleasant smile (or as pleasant as the man could give, she supposed). She had noticed that Sybil managed to stay away (visiting Mama, Edith had told her). She couldn't help but wonder if another reason for her little sister's absence was Larry Grey, who kept glancing anxiously towards the door, as if hoping her sister would suddenly make an appearance. Finally, Maj. Bryant encouraged Larry to go with him to play a game of billiards, while their father chose to retreat to the library. Lavinia murmured something about feeling tired, and left the drawing room, and Granny mentioned something about wanting to go upstairs and asked Edith if she would help her.

Poor Granny. The news of William's death had hit her greatly. Mary remembered how her grandmother had tried very hard to keep William out of the War, but William insisted, wanting to do his part for king and country. And yet it was not the War that got him in the end, but a creature of nightmare; one that could quite possibly kill them all. No one was safe, soldier or civilian.

She made similar excuses, saying she needed to go and see to her mother, as well as to hopefully find Sybil. Sir Richard rose, as if preparing to follow her and join her on this "search", but thankfully, Mr. Napier stepped in, asking Sir Richard to share another brandy with him, giving Mary a pleasant…and quite possibly…an understanding smile, before she quickly turned on her heel and left the two of them in the drawing room, passing Carson, who told her where she could find Matthew.

And now here she stood, gazing at his hunched figure which looked so tired and battle weary. Her poor Perseus…

She glanced up at the night sky, and noticed how clear it looked. "There are no clouds tonight," she murmured at last, causing him to stir and turn to face her.

His expression was unreadable, but he didn't look too upset to see her standing there. They hadn't had the chance to speak since his return, but she remembered watching him stand in the hall, everyone gathered around, listening to his tale about what had happened in the village, about how Branson's brother was still missing (save for a hand that had been left behind), about the attack in the hospital, about the numerous Walkers that seemed to be there, and then the events that happened in one of the shops…and poor William's death. The whole time she listened, her heart ached, not only for William and the loss she knew that Carson and the other servants were feeling for him, but also for Matthew, who was trying with great difficulty to not let his tears show, but that she could see glistening in his eyes, and hear the crack in his voice as he retold the story.

She desperately wanted to push her way through the gathered crowd and take him in her arms, or at least take his hand. She felt so guilty now for the things she had said to William. And she knew that despite what had happened in London, Matthew clearly cared for the footman, that a bond had grown between them that she could only guess had come from their days in the army. _He was the one who faced betrayal, and yet he forgave William so easily, with grace and understanding. He will make a fine Earl of Grantham someday…_

"Does Robert wish to see me?" he asked, putting his cigar down on the terrace railing.

Mary shook her head. "No, he's in the library, and I have a feeling doesn't wish to be disturbed."

Matthew nodded and didn't say anything further on the subject. "And…and Edith and Cousin Violet?"

"Both have gone upstairs," she explained. "I haven't seen Sybil since you returned; she did go to see Mama, and perhaps decided to stay with her and have supper in her room."

Matthew nodded again. "How is she feeling by the way?"

She knew he was referring to her mother. "Shaken, I think. It was a close call, to be sure," she let out a long shaky sigh as she recalled the horror of hearing her mother's scream, running along the garden path with Edith and Carson, terrified that something had happened, and finding her mother lying there on the ground, her dress torn and her face pale and her hand clutched at her throat, as she gazed at the remains of the Walker who had come out of nowhere, it seemed.

"But…but she wasn't hurt?" he asked, looking at her with questioning eyes, his gaze full of concern and…and something else, but she wasn't quite sure. Apprehension?

"A few bruises from where the Walker had grabbed her, and where she had fallen, but other than that, she's fine—physically, at least."

Matthew let out what she could only think to describe as a sigh of relief, before nodding his head and murmuring, "Good, good, I'm glad to hear it."

She frowned at this, and thought back to when he had told them what had happened to William. Was it her imagination? Or…was he leaving something out in his story?

"And Lavinia?" he asked, looking at her again with question.

Mary stiffened slightly at the mention of the other woman, but forced a smile and nodded her head. "She said she was feeling tired, and bid us all goodnight—I think she's in her room now."

He nodded at this. "I can't imagine what's going through her head right now," he sighed. "Well, no, that's not quite true, I can, but…God, I hope she's handling it far better than I am."

Mary didn't quite know what to say to that. It was clear that there was…something…between Matthew and Miss Swire. A familiarity, a sense of comfort; where there always seemed to be tension between herself and Matthew, there was…tranquility…between him and Miss Swire.

And no matter how hard she fought the emotion, God help her, Mary could not deny, at least to herself…that she was envious.

But she would never reveal that to anyone else.

"She…she told us what you did for them…for William and Daisy," she continued, her smile not so forced now. In truth, she found the story very moving, and it caused her heart to swell with pride and emotion for what Matthew had done for William in his final moments. "That was very kind of you."

Matthew didn't say anything; in fact he lowered his eyes then and looked down at the ground. But she noticed how his lips moved, mumbling something and Mary stepped closer, trying to catch his words. "What?" she softly asked, watching him closely.

He sighed and lifted his eyes again, and a gasp caught in her throat as once again, she saw tears filling his eyes at the painful memory. "I said…I…I could have stopped it."

"Oh Matthew—"

"I wasn't certain it was dead; I should have shot it again, just to be sure. Or I could have been faster, shooting it as soon as it tried to grab Daisy—"

"Matthew, this isn't your fault—"

"Then whose fault is it?" he asked, his voice rising and the emotion growing rawer with every breath and blink of his eyes. "Someone has to blame! If not me, who? The Walker?" he shook his head, bitterly. "How many times has William saved my life? On the field, during the War? And then at the hospital—even though he left, he still barricaded my door, trying to keep them out and keep me safe! And then today, while we fought those things, while we searched for Tom's brother, while we tried to help Daisy and Lavinia when they were trapped in that shop office—how many times did William save my life—ALL our lives—and the one time he needed someone to save his, _I couldn't do it!"_

She took hold of his face then, her hands rising up to cup his cheeks. "You are NOT the villain!" she hissed. "Blame the War, blame the Keiser, blame the Prime Minister, even! Blame those scientists who created the gas that allowed this happen—but _do not_ blame yourself!"

He let out a long, weary breath, before sagging against her, his hands moving to her waist and holding her there, while he pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and letting his tears silently fall down his face.

They stood like that for a long moment, not saying anything, just holding each other, just being there for the other and providing what strength they could. She gazed at his face through her lashes, gazed at his tear-stained cheeks and his smooth lips, lips that she remembered so well against her own and that she very much wished to kiss again.

But didn't dare move. Not now, not when he was so vulnerable and allowing her to comfort him. So they continued to stand and hold one another, listening to the sounds of the night, the breeze moving through the trees, a few crickets chirping in the distance. Finally, Matthew released another sigh, before straightening himself and lifting his head away from hers, his hands falling away from her waist…but they did reach for own, and she quickly welcomed the feel of his fingers entwined with hers once again.

"I…I understand that you went shooting today," he murmured at last. "Carson told me."

Mary smiled at this and nodded her head. "I thought it would be a good idea. Anna helped me, but as you may remember, I do have some knowledge in handling a gun."

He chuckled at this, a sound that lifted her heart. "You always were a decent shot, from what I recall."

She smiled and blushed. "A bit rusty now, but with time, I'll be as good as Annie Oakley, so Mama says."

He chuckled again and lifted his eyes once more to hers, his hands gently squeezing hers. "What…what changed your mind?"

She sighed and looked down at their entwined fingers. She remembered all the arguments the two of them had had recently, arguments that seemed so silly now when she thought about it. "You have to understand," she began, before lifting her eyes to meet his again. "Papa…Papa feels so lost in this world. Lost and helpless. He's trying to do what he thinks is right, which is provide and take care of us all, not just as a husband and father, but as a master and lord of Downton. But…" she turned her face slightly and glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her. "But this is unlike anything he could imagine—anyone could imagine," she murmured. She turned back to look at him, grateful to see that was listening intently, and that his eyes were full of care and concern. "By…by asserting his authority over everyone, it's his way of trying to feel…not so helpless." She squeezed his hands, noticing how he was starting to turn away and could see the frustration on his face. "Papa does respect you, Matthew, and he values your opinion! Please, you mustn't take his criticism or reluctance personally!"

Matthew sighed and looked down at their hands once again. "I know," he muttered. "I understand that now, that he's trying to…to regain some sense of power. That he sees accepting the fact that he or Carson or Bates or…" he paused and took a deep breath. "…Or William aren't enough to protect everyone, he feels…"

"That he's failed in his duty to us," Mary murmured sadly.

"But can't he see that he'll do more harm if he doesn't accept that things need to change!"

She released one of his hands and lifted it to his face, a gesture that was meant to calm, and thankfully, it seemed to work. "He is, Matthew—slowly, but he is…after all, he has agreed to let you and the others teach us all how to shoot, just…just give him a little more time, please." She couldn't help but smile as she watched him close his eyes and lean into her touch. "I'll do what I can to help him see reason…but you mustn't push him; he has that famous Crawley pride that you know so well."

He looked at her and began to chuckle, which only made her smile broaden more. "I am familiar with it, I can't deny."

"Where do you think I get it from?" she giggled softly, her fingers lingering against his cheek, remembering how lovely it felt to touch him like this. "I'm sorry for that, by the way," she whispered.

He looked confused. "Sorry?"

Mary sighed and nodded. "For…for my own stubbornness…and for what I said to you that night, after Sybil returned from the petrol station."

She could tell by the way he stiffened slightly that he remembered that conversation (argument really) all too well. She had hurt him then, but in truth she was confused by his return. Confused by the feelings that she thought she had finally put to rest after believing for so many months that he was dead, only to return and complicate things in her life, and in her heart.

"I'm probably closer to Papa than anyone else, with the exception of Mama. I felt sorry for him, knowing how difficult he was finding it, admitting 'defeat' in some ways, facing the reality that this world has brought, that he may not be able to protect us all from the horrors beyond these walls…and…and I couldn't bear to see him in pain like that, and…" she paused and looked down before lifting her eyes and locking them with his own. "And I was angry with you."

"Angry with me?" he repeated, lifting one of his own hands to her cheek. Mary closed her eyes briefly, just as he had done, and leaned her face against his fingers.

"Yes," she sighed, opening her eyes once more. "I…I had buried you, you see. I thought you were dead, I thought…I thought I would be able to…to let go and move forward…"

"Mary…"

She shook her head. "But even if that were true, even if you had died as I had believed, in that hospital all those months ago, I…I don't think I could have truly let you go…not completely, not in my heart," she looked up at him then, swallowing as her eyes held his. "I was just a shell, really. Going through the motions, being the well-bred lady that I was brought up to be, smiling and acting as if nothing was different, wanting to be like Papa in that sense, and believe that nothing _was_ different, that I was still _just_ Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter to the Earl of Grantham, and if the laws were different, future heir and countess to Downton Abbey."

She was trembling, and not just because of the revelations she was laying before him, but also because once again, she could feel his hands on her waist, bringing her closer.

"You could never be _just_ Lady Mary Crawley," he murmured, his face moving closer to hers. "You're so much more than _just_ anything."

"I've only ever felt that way when I'm with you," she whispered, her arms moving around his shoulders, eager to once again taste and feel his lips on hers, to lose herself as she had done earlier to his kiss, to—

"Milady?"

Both she and Matthew released each other and once and took a step back. Mary loved Carson like a second father, but right now she silently cursed the Downton butler, before putting on a smile and turning to face him. He was standing in the doorway leading out to the terrace, frowning slightly.

"I don't think it's safe that you linger outside, considering what happened today to her Ladyship," he stated simply.

"Quite right, Carson," she answered, still smiling at the butler. "I'll step inside very soon, I promise."

Carson eyed Matthew, who had picked up his cigar and resumed to smoke it, before giving them both a stiff nod, murmuring his goodnights, and finally turning and leaving.

She wondered if Matthew was going to say something about how they had nearly kissed. She wondered if she should say something. The truth was, unlike the last time, she didn't feel any shame in the action. Perhaps that was because she had confessed so much to him? But she did feel as if a tremendous weight had been removed from her shoulders. However a frown soon clouded her face as she thought of her greatest obstacle, being Sir Richard who she was very grateful hadn't been the one to have come across them just now.

"I just realized something," Matthew murmured, turning to look at her, his brow furrowed. "I haven't seen Dr. Clarkson since we returned. He wasn't at dinner either."

Mary frowned as well. "No, he…he was in the library for a while this afternoon, according to Papa, but…but he said before you returned that he wanted to spend some time looking over some books in his room. I'm sure Mrs. Hughes saw that he received a tray."

He still looked troubled, but didn't say anything further. "I wasn't the most hospitable person to your friends," he sighed, looking a little guilty. "Or to Robert."

She knew what he meant. Matthew was not pleased to see three new faces upon returning to Downton, and immediately demanded who they were and why her father had allowed them to enter. The story was then explained what had happened to her mother, and Matthew seemed to relax slightly, but he eyed all of them warily throughout dinner.

"It's still his house," she reminded him. "You're not the Earl of Grantham yet."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "You think I care about that? I just want to make sure everyone is safe! I…" he paused and took a deep breath. "I don't want what happened to William to happen to anyone else!"

"Then both of us will talk to Papa and help him to understand that, but let me first, please," she gently touched his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze, before releasing it before his own hand could touch hers again. She needed a little time to herself tonight, to assess what should be done between these two men. She knew what she wanted, but at the same time, she knew she had a duty to perform, and unlike her younger sisters, she was not so impulsive to disregard honor and duty…at least not without carefully weighing the consequences.

"It's been a very long day for us all, but especially for you," she said, lifting her eyes once again and smiling at him. "You should get some rest."

"I will," he sighed, taking another puff from his cigar. "Let me finish this first, though. But please, don't feel you need to wait for me."

She smiled and nodded her head, before turning and leaving him at last. Even though there were a great many weights upon her heart and mind after this moment between them, she did feel as if she were floating. She quickly made her way up the stairs, hoping against hope that she did not run into Sir Richard, but so far, she was lucky.

She did however run into a certain housemaid, emerging from the room where Bates was being kept.

"Oh!" Anna blushed but smiled. "I'll come by at once and help you undress, milady."

Mary smiled but then glanced around quickly, before turning back to Anna. "Do you still have that note I gave you earlier?"

Anna's eyes widened slightly. "The message you wished for me to give to Capt. Crawley? I do, milady, I haven't had the chance to give it to him yet—"

"Don't," Mary interrupted, trying her hardest to conceal her blush and her smile. "In fact, I'll take it from you and see to it, myself."

* * *

New sheets were stretched out on the bed, although Ethel wasn't so sure if they were any better than the ones she had just removed. Still, she had told him she would make the effort, and was proud of herself for doing so. She smiled as she thought of his smile, and the way he had looked at her. She hoped he would be pleased, and appreciate what she had done—

"Ah, so you're still here?"

She had just picked up the discarded sheets, but gave a frightful gasp at the sound of his voice.

"I'm sorry!" he quickly apologized, shutting the door behind him so to make sure no one else heard. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She blushed but quickly put on a smile and shook her head. "It's alright, sir, I um…as you can see, I just changed the sheets for you as you had asked."

"Yes, I do see that," he said, smiling as he gazed at her work. "You're very helpful."

She blushed at this and gave a little curtsey, before resuming her exit. However, as she passed him, he reached out and touched her arm.

"Wait…let me…let me first make sure that they are...better," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.

Ethel felt her heartbeat quicken as he looked at her, the way a predator looks at its prey, yet she wasn't afraid. In truth…she was intrigued.

He moved towards the bed and lay a hand on the sheets. "Hmmm…" he turned his eyes to her and held his hand out to her, beckoning for her to come to where he stood. She obeyed.

"How…how does this feel to you?" he asked, taking her hand in his and placing it against the sheets.

She swallowed as he pressed her palm into the fabric, and as she noticed how his fingers would linger against her skin.

"It feels fine, sir," she answered, her voice slightly breathy.

"Does it?" he asked, his hand still covering hers, and his fingers still massaging her skin. "Maybe it wasn't the sheets but the mattress? You know I can't stand a lumpy bed, not after all those years with the army…"

She looked up at him and saw that predatory fire she had seen earlier, only it was burning even brighter now. "I could smooth it out for you," she whispered, knowing very well what he was implying, what he was asking, even though he hadn't asked her yet.

He grinned, and moved his arms around her, helping her down onto the bed with him quickly following. "Such a helpful maid…"

* * *

Elsie sighed as entered the Servant's Hall. She didn't expect to see anyone there, but she was grateful to notice that a light was on in the butler's pantry. She moved quietly to the door and gently knocked before entering and seeing her dear friend sitting at his desk, his fingers tapping together softly, as he often did when he was deep in thought.

He looked up and smiled at her, but it was a sad smile, one that she could very well understand. "Shall I make us some tea?" she asked.

Mr. Carson shook his head. "No, I think…I think something stronger is better suited for tonight."

"Aye," she agreed, moving closer and taking her usual chair opposite him. He wasted no time, pouring them both a glass of brandy, one that he only opened for very specific and special occasions. And tonight was such an occasion.

"To William…" he murmured, lifting his glass. She murmured the words back and they both drank, before pausing and giving a moment of silence to the fallen hero. After the silence had passed, he lifted his eyes to hers and finally asked after the others.

"Mrs. Patmore is sleeping, finally," she explained. "I don't know how she'll be tomorrow, but she's resting now."

"And Daisy?" he asked.

Elsie looked down at her glass, her heart breaking at thought of the poor girl and how she had cried in her arms when they had returned to the house. "She keeps to her room," she sighed. "Both myself and Anna have tried to coax her out, or let one of us in, but…she'll see no one."

He nodded his head and took another drink from his glass. "I understand, from what Miss Swire said, that…that Capt. Crawley 'married' them."

Elsie hadn't heard this, so her eyes widened with pleasant surprise. "That was very kind of him; William…William would have liked that."

"Indeed, he would have," Mr. Carson agreed. Another moment of silence passed between them and they each sat there, drinking their brandies and thinking about the lad who many below stairs saw as a son. "I still remember when he first came here," Mr. Carson murmured at last, breaking the silence. "He was barely fifteen; I remember how his mother was so nervous and worried about him, but so proud…" he grinned at the memory, and Elsie felt her own lips curl into a smile as well.

"She asked me to keep an eye on him, and to teach him how to be a proper footman, so one day he could be a butler to a great house like Downton," he continued, his smile never fading. "And every week, sure enough, there was a letter from her, asking me to tell her about William's progress."

Elsie smiled at this. "I didn't know that; how long did you keep correspondence?"

"Oh for years, Mrs. Hughes, many, many years. Up until she fell ill…" he paused as the memory returned, and she could see the sadness in his eyes. "A few weeks before she died…she sent me her last letter," he began. "Her handwriting was…wasn't as it used to be, and it was difficult to read, but…but I was able to make out the last line."

Elsie leaned closer, her hand reaching for his. "And what did it say?"

Mr. Carson took a deep breath. "Take care of my son, as if he were your own."

Charles Carson was not a man who easily betrayed his emotions. He was the epitome of English stoicism. Yet once in a while, Elsie Hughes saw a part of him that no one else saw, that she knew he would not allow anyone else to see if he could help it. But it was something that he would reveal to her, and she felt very honored and humbled that he trusted her enough to do just that.

She squeezed his hand as he let the emotion pour forth, as he lifted his hand to cover his eyes and silently mourn for the lad they all loved and cherished and were very sad to lose. She had shed her tears, and she knew she would shed some more. But right now, she simply sat there and held his hand, gripping it tightly, but tenderly, being the anchor that he needed.

"I failed her," he gasped at one point. "I gave her my word that I would look after him and I failed her."

"Mr. Carson, you mustn't blame yourself—"

"He was my responsibility, Mrs. Hughes."

"No…" she covered his hand with her other, and ran her fingers across his knuckles. "William was no more your responsibility than I am."

His hand suddenly gripped hers, and he lifted his eyes then and held her gaze. "Oh Mrs. Hughes, but you're wrong. You _are_ my responsibility—all of you! And…and if anything ever happened to you, I don't know if I could—"

"Then we must see that nothing ever does," she interrupted, her eyes never leaving his, even though her face felt quite heated at such a confession. "Perhaps now you can understand why it's such a good idea that we all learn how to properly defend ourselves?"

She had said those words with hopes that they would lighten the mood a little, and thankfully, they had done their trick, because she saw the corners of his mouth lift and heard a deep chuckle in the back of his throat. "Perhaps," he murmured, which was enough of an acceptance from a man such as he.

"I wish…" he began again and sighed, squeezing her hand. "I wish he could have been buried here."

Elsie sighed and nodded her head. "I know," she whispered. "But…but rather than let that be how we think of him, let us honor and cherish him and remember the brave lad who always had such hope for the world…even during a time of war and chaos."

He nodded in agreement. "Quite right, Mrs. Hughes, quite right." He looked at her again, in that tender way he had before, and once again Elsie felt a slight heat rise to her cheeks. "I don't know what I…or this house, would do without you."

She squeezed his hands once again, before reluctantly letting them go. "I can say the same thing about you, Mr. Carson."

* * *

He had been wandering the grounds, lost in thought. Perhaps it wasn't the safest thing to do, but he didn't care. No Walker would dare cross him, not tonight, not after the day he had had…or the thing he had witnessed.

He knew he wasn't allowed back in the house, not after the attempt he had made on Thomas' life. Before he had left with the others that afternoon, Mr. Carson had told him as much, that if he wanted a bed to sleep in, he best seek it in the chauffeur's cottage. He rolled his eyes as he approached his "prison", a part of him wondering why he even bothered. It was so tempting, to just take one of the cars and go. Leave and travel directly to York, as he should have done, as he and his brother had promised to do. Or perhaps he would go back to the village, and tear it apart, piece by piece, until he found Kieran? Both ideas were tempting, and he told himself that the _only_ reason he wasn't doing either of them was because it was dark and the number one rule he and his brother had established when they set out on their own was to never travel after dark, unless you absolutely had to.

…Well, that wasn't the number one rule, but it was his number one rule now, since he had broken the original number one rule, which was allow himself to get close to others.

_Kieran was right,_ he thought to himself. _He was right and I am the world's biggest fool._

He opened the door to the cottage and stepped inside, but no sooner had he done so, but he was greeted by the one thing had hoped to escape…and that was constantly on his mind.

"Tom?"

"Jesus, Sybil!" he groaned, startled by the sight of her, sitting there on the dusty stairs, a small oil lamp resting beside her. "What…" he looked at her as if she were mad. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," she answered, as if it were the most logical explanation. "Where have you been? I was worried—"

"You don't need to worry about me," he muttered, moving away from her and shrugging his jacket off. The cottage was cool and there was a significant smell of damp, but he didn't care. _It's only for one night, _he told himself. _I'm leaving tomorrow; I'm leaving and never looking back._

"Tom…" she tried to approach him again, and once again, he tried to move away from her. "Tom, please—"

"Go back to the house, Sybil," he growled, feeling both frustrated and irritated that she was there. It was hard enough trying to escape her when she was constantly on his mind and in his thoughts, both waking and asleep. Must she make the temptations all the more painful by actually being there in the flesh?

"Tom—"

"I said go back to the house!"

"WILL YOU LISTEN TO ME?" she practically shouted, refusing to budge and looking at him with wild eyes. "I'll leave as soon as you let me speak! Agreed?"

It wasn't going to be that simple, he knew it. Nothing with her was. But he nodded his head in agreement, because really, what else could he do? If he turned and left, she would follow him, and he wasn't going to risk her life in the dark. So instead he sighed, folded his arms across his chest, and turned to face her once again. "Alright, I'm listening."

She nodded her head and gave a tiny smile, but it wasn't like any smile he had seen her wear before. It was one that squeezed at his arm and made his arms ache to hold her, but kept them locked to his sides, refusing to touch her again if he could avoid it. He needed to cleanse himself from Sybil Crawley as best he could, although he knew it would be impossible to forget her.

She looked nervous, as if she hadn't thought this whole thing through. Perhaps she had expected him to refuse to hear her out? Now she shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry that Carson has banished you out here," she murmured at last. "It's completely unfair."

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's for the best," he muttered. "I don't know if I would be able to control my anger if I came across that slimy git."

She bit her lip and he wondered if he had frightened her just then with the way he spoke. He didn't like the idea of scaring her, but at the same time he thought perhaps it was for the best? Better that she be afraid of him and stay far away than the alternative.

"Thomas has been locked away in his room all day," she explained. "I don't think Carson will allow—"

"Who said I was talking about Thomas?"

Sybil stared at him and he stared right back at her. He noticed how her eyes widened slightly and her breathing quickened. She then looked away, swallowing and fidgeting nervously, but despite the darkness of the cottage, Tom could see the blush on her cheek.

"I'm not engaged," she suddenly stated.

Tom didn't say anything, but he did lift a brow at her words.

"What you heard…it was all a misunderstanding you see—"

"That's quite a misunderstanding to make; for a man to refer to himself as one's 'fiancé'."

She looked embarrassed and Tom felt his heart squeeze with pity for her. But he quickly tried to harden it, and took another step away, trying desperately to put more distance between the two of them.

"Larry is an old family friend, his father is Mary's godfather—"

"Sybil, I don't care," he interrupted, only partially lying. "I don't care who this man is or what he is to you and your family. And…and whether he's your fiancée or not is none of my business or my concern."

He turned his eyes away, not wanting to look in them for fear of what he might see. He knew his words were hurtful, but he didn't think he would be able to stand to see the pain their blue-gray depths.

"I thought…" she began to whisper, but quickly stopped herself. An awkward silence fell between the two of them and Tom wasn't sure what to say or do. He knew what he wanted to do, but that was impossible.

"I…I don't care about Larry Grey either," she spoke again, ending their silence. "I don't care about him…or…or anyone else, for that matter."

He turned and gave her a look from the side of his eye. "That's not true; you have the biggest heart out of anyone I know."

She blushed then and looked down at her feet. "What I mean is, I…I don't care what others think, or what the world thinks!" she surprised him then by quickly crossing the room until she was standing directly in front of him, her eyes searching his, entrapping him with their beauty, causing him to freeze and gaze back, breath barely escaping his lungs. "But…but I do care what _you_ think."

He looked down at her, his heart racing as she stood there, only a few inches away, her lovely face turned up towards his, her lips…soft, smooth, and full, tilted just so…open and waiting. He could end this torture now; he could taste her lips and give in to his addiction at last. And he must have been swaying closer, looking as if he were going to do just that, because her next words startled him.

"Yes…"

He looked at her, his breath catching at the way she had moaned the word. "Yes?"

"Yes…yes you can kiss me."

Oh God in heaven. She was looking at him with hopeful expectation, leaning closer, her body practically flush against his own. She was offering herself to him, offering her lips, granting him permission to do what he had been dreaming for so long, possibly since the moment he had met her in that orchard…

His hands gripped her arms and he painfully pushed her away. "Sybil…" he didn't say the word "no", but he was shaking his head.

But God help him, she was insistent. "It's alright," she reassured, trying to move closer to him again. "I want you to—"

"I can't."

"Can't?"

_I shouldn't_. "No," he stated a bit more firmly, holding her away from him with a powerful grip on her arms.

She looked as if he had struck her. He never seen her look this before, so lost and vulnerable. She hadn't even looked like this when he had been comforting her earlier after William had died. And he felt like such a bastard for putting that look on her face.

But it was for the best—he couldn't be what she wanted. What she deserved.

"Sybil…" he didn't know why he was still talking. He should have just sent her back to the house. "Sybil, this…this is your grief speaking."

She looked up at him in confusion. "My grief?"

He nodded his head. "Aye; you lost a dear friend today, after losing another not so long ago. And…and you were caught up in the emotion of it all, when Matthew married William and Daisy—"

She was struggling in his hold, and that vulnerability he had seen earlier quickly melted to what could only be described as anger.

"You think…you think that I…that I only came out here to find you and speak to you and tell you that I'm not engaged to anyone or that I told you could kiss me…because I am _grieving?"_

"When you just gave me permission to kiss you, you didn't know what you were saying! You don't know what you're thinking, you—"

He stumbled backwards from the hard shove she gave him, nearly falling over and landing on his backside if he hadn't reached out and caught his balance on an old wooden table.

"How DARE you!" she hissed, her eyes alight with fire. "How DARE you presume to know my mind! To know what's in my heart!" she spat. "I am NOT some…some…simpering school girl who is 'suffering' from a forbidden crush!" she looked like she was ready to attack and shove him again, so he quickly moved out of her way before she could do so. But she was livid to be sure! And even though he hated being the one on the receiving end of such anger, he couldn't deny, he loved seeing the fire in her. "Good God, I thought you of all people would understand!"

"Understand what?" he challenged, straightening his shoulders as if preparing for battle.

She rolled her eyes. "You're a socialist, you believe in change, and we are LIVING in a world that HAS changed! Social orders and class divides don't matter anymore!"

"We're living in a world that has gone to hell and that has been forced to make changes," he countered. "And when people are forced to make such significant changes, that's when they cling to the past and how things 'used to be' the most," he growled. "And you go back in there and ask your father, or Mr. Carson…or your _precious_ Larry Grey, and I have a feeling they'll tell you that social orders and class divides matter a great deal!"

"He is NOT my 'precious' Larry Grey!" she almost shouted. "I told you, we are NOT engaged, he means nothing to me, and truly, he is the LAST PERSON to whom I care what he thinks about ANYTHING!" She squared her shoulders and tried to make herself look as tall he was, before pointing a finger at him and actually jabbing it into his chest. "NO ONE, especially a man, TELLS ME what I think or feel! I KNOW what I think and feel, and THAT is what matters!"

He took a step closer, ignoring the finger that she was pressing against him. "And what is that you think and feel, _milady?_" he growled.

She stared at him and despite the fire he could still see in her eyes…there it was again, that vulnerability that had caused his breath to catch and his heart to stop. "Don't you know?" she whispered, a desperate air of hope in her voice.

She held his eyes and he stared back. Everything that he wondered, everything that his heart desperately dreamed, he could see there in her eyes. And in his mind, the voice of his brother was screaming at him, telling him to step away, to let her go, to end this madness now before it got out of hand.

But it already had.

God help him, he was in love with Sybil Crawley.

He didn't say anything, and she must have taken his silence as an answer, because it was she who took a step back, and it was she covered her mouth with her hand and who lowered her eyes, and it was she who turned at last towards the door to leave.

But it was him who reached out and stopped her, grabbing her arm and turning her back to face him.

And it was he who took that extra step that was needed, one hand clutching her hip, before rising and moving to her waist and wrapping around it to draw her against him, while the other cupped her cheek, his fingers spreading until they threaded into her hair, before moving to cup her head, and bring her face to his.

And it was he…who finally gave into the temptation he had been longing to lose himself to since the moment he met her. Because he took that invitation, that offering of smooth, pink lips, and covered them with his own, kissing her deeply, fully, surprising her by letting his tongue push past their softness when she gasped, and fully taste the sweetness of her mouth.

She clung to him, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, before moving up and around his shoulders, her palms pressing against the muscles that throbbed beneath her fingers, before finally weaving around his neck, her fingers threading into his own hair, and drawing his head even closer.

It was better than anything he could have imagined, that he had imagined. No dream could rival the actual pleasure of kissing Sybil Crawley.

They gasped when their lips finally parted, hers looking swollen from the intensity of the kiss. Their breath was shaky, and their bodies were trembling. "You should go back," he finally managed to murmur, after somehow finding his voice.

She shook her head. "Let me stay, please?"

"Sybil…"

"Please, Tom?"

"You don't know what you're asking, and I mean it this time, you truly don't." He ran his fingers along her cheek, dazzled by the softness of her skin, and the innocent trust he saw in her eyes.

"I'm not asking for…for that," she blushed, causing him to groan. Maybe she wasn't, but he knew that was all he was going to be thinking about, especially now that he had tasted her at last. "But I don't want to leave you, not yet. Please…let me stay until the hour before dawn? I'll slip back inside before anyone even realizes I'm gone."

He was tempted to give in. Very tempted. But wasn't this going to make it even harder for when he had to go? Oh God help him, how could he leave now? Now that he had kissed her? Now that he realized how deeply he felt for her?

"Oh my darlin'," he sighed, leaning his head against hers, his accent thick as he tightened his hold on her. "What am I going to do with you?"

She smiled and equally tightened her hold on him. "Kiss me again," was her answer.

Who was he to argue?

* * *

Sarah peeked inside the room, checking on her Lady, seeing if she was resting easier now. She had been so upset when she had learned the news about William, and when Lady Sybil had come to her room, the two of them had cried together, both out of grief for the footman, as well as out of relief to what her Ladyship had survived.

She had been quite shaken after the attack. Sarah had taken her directly to her room and put her right to bed. His Lordship came to visit first, worried and upset and it was one of the rare moments when Sarah O'Brien saw the man weep. He then turned to thank her, which surprised her that he was even aware that she was in the room. After he left, her Lady laid down to rest, but it was fitful. She was worried about Lady Sybil, and Capt. Crawley, and the others. Sarah hovered close by, the only time she ever left was when her Lady asked her to, in finding out what had happened in the village. She had done everything she could to try and make her Lady more comfortable; she had changed the sheets twice, fluffed her pillows, even offered to massage her feet and shoulders, but her Lady shook her head, saying that whatever was bothering her had nothing to do with the bed or aching muscles.

"O'Brien?"

Sarah looked over at her Lady and quietly approached the bed. "I'm here, milady; is there something you need?"

She began to sit up, and was clutching her throat slightly. "Water, please; I…I'm feeling very thirsty."

Sarah nodded her head and quickly moved to a pitcher she had brought upstairs with her from earlier.

"Where…where is his Lordship?" her Lady asked.

"I believe he's still downstairs in his library; do you want me to go and fetch him?"

"No, no, that's alright," her Lady assured, putting on a smile and gratefully accepting the water Sarah held out for her.

She drank it quickly, something that caused Sarah to frown. "Easy, milady, we don't want you to get sick."

She smiled at Sarah and handed her back the empty glass, shaking her head when asked if she would like another.

As Sarah placed the now empty glass on the tray by the pitcher, she noticed how her Lady was rubbing her arm, near the shoulder. She hissed a little, as if in pain, and Sarah felt herself tense at the sound.

"Are you hurt, milady? Do you want me to go and find Dr. Clarkson?"

She shook her head. "No, no, I think…just a bruise from earlier; that thing was very strong," she sighed, attempting to ease herself back down, but still touching her arm as she went.

"Milady…" Sarah sighed, kneeling by her Lady's bedside. "I can put some salve or something on it to make it feel better. Please…let me look?"

Her Lady groaned, but didn't protest. "You're so good to me, O'Brien," she sighed, turning slightly so the lady's maid could properly see to her arm.

Sarah rolled up the sleeve of her Lady's nightgown, but froze when she reached the place that her Lady had complained about.

It wasn't a bruise.

There was a nasty red gash, no bigger than the nail on her thumb, but it was swollen…and the skin beneath it was an ugly shade of blue and purple, and yes, there looked to be a little puss leaking from the gash. Sarah grabbed a cloth and immediately began to dab at the wound, causing her Lady to cry out in the sudden pain.

"I'm sorry, milady, I didn't mean to hurt you," Sarah quickly apologized, her eyes flying to her Lady's, before looking back at the wound. "What…what happened?"

Her Lady sighed, being careful not to press too hard against the leaking gash as she lifted her fingers to it. "I think…I think I was bitten."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED IN JUNE! *running away and cackling* Thanks for reading!_


	31. Beginning

_THE WAIT IS OVER! Today (June 13) is *my birthday* and as a present to all of you, I give you the next chapter! I'm not going to say much, other than a lot happened in that last chapter, and we start to face the aftermath of some of those events. I hope you enjoy, and I thank everyone who has read, followed, favorited, and told me how they can't wait for the next installment! I hope this doesn't disappoint :oP THANK YOU FOR READING!_

* * *

_Chapter Thirty-One_

"**Beginning"**

Things were different.

The mattress which she was lying on top of was unfamiliar, as well as uncomfortable. The room was very cool as well; had no one come to light the fire? She sleepily tugged the blanket closer to her chin, frowning because it felt so thin…and it smelled strange, too. She shifted a little, her eyes still closed despite these differences…

And then they suddenly flew open as she felt both her back and backside come into contact with something very warm…and very solid.

It moved. Whatever was behind her moved! And Sybil's breath caught in her throat as she felt something strong and warm wrap around her waist…pulling her closer to the solid warmth that radiated against her back.

She glanced down at the object that had moved around her waist, her cheeks flooding with heat and color as she took in the sight of a familiar looking forearm—a _muscular_ forearm that she had been admiring for many, many days and that sometimes filled her dreams when she slept.

And suddenly the memories of the previous night all came back to her.

_It wasn't a dream._ She couldn't help breaking into a smile as she realized, much to her joy, that what had happened last night had NOT been a dream!

She frowned as she recalled other memories of the previous day, memories that caused her heart to throb in pain and sorrow, and but she squeezed her eyes shut, trying her best to stop the tears that stung them, and at least for a little moment longer, concentrate completely on the fact that last night, she had found Tom, she had explained that she wasn't engaged to Larry Grey, and then…and then…

_And then he kissed me._

She opened her eyes, and released a long, shaky breath as the sweet memory washed over her once again.

His lips were so warm, so firm, and yet…so soft. Her own lips still tingled as she recalled the way his moved over hers, the sweet press of them, and the hunger which she felt. She remembered gasping in wonderful surprise, and his mouth deepened the kiss, his tongue moving across her lips, passed her lips, drawing and coaxing her own tongue out into his mouth, caressing it with his, causing her body to melt and her toes to curl, the sensation feeling like a hundred fingers of electricity running up and down her spine. They had clung to each other, his arms strong and powerful, wrapped around her body, drawing her closer, pulling her closer, her own hands grasping his shoulders, before weaving behind, around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, wanting more, always wanting more.

It had been her first kiss. And it was even better than she ever thought it could be.

Because it was with Tom.

Tom Branson. The mysterious Irishman who appeared out of nowhere, killing the Walker that had attacked her sister, that tried to kill her. He had saved her life on many occasions, but he was much more to her than her rescuer. He listened to her; she hadn't told anyone about her grief over what had happened to Gwen, over how she felt responsible for her friend's death, how she knew that the only way to avenge dear Gwen was to take matters into her own hands and learn how to properly defend herself, so that no one would have to suffer in trying to protect her ever again. And Tom understood that; he taught her how to shoot, and when the time came that he needed someone to help and defend him, he trusted her to do just that! In a matter of days, he had quickly become her dearest friend, so dear that she didn't know what she would do if he ever left.

_I love him._

A shaky breath escaped her lungs as she let the revelation wash over her. She had never been in love before. She had had crushes in the past, but…but nothing like this!

She nibbled her bottom lip, suddenly feeling very shy. Should she say something to him? They had kissed, many times last night. She had actually begged him to let her stay. Oh gracious, she had never been so bold with a man before! She bit her lip, but couldn't help but smile despite the blush that burned her cheeks.

This was his bed; she was lying with him in his bed! They had spent the night together, sleeping side by side, his warm, wonderful strength wrapped around her. But Sybil didn't need to glance down at her body to know that she still remained dressed, that the only article of clothing she had removed were her shoes. Indeed, what they had done would be deemed "highly inappropriate", even if they had resisted any urges like _that_. She honestly wasn't sure if she was glad they had withheld giving in to those desires…or disappointed. She had never felt anything like this, any sort of…_passion_ for another person. It both frightened and fascinated her.

Yet now, safely wrapped in the circle of his arms, his broad, muscular frame pressed against her back, and—she gasped, doing her best to suppress a giggle, when she heard him sleepily groan, before pressing his face into her hair, breathing in its scent and pulling her even closer than before.

"Oh!" Sybil gasped, her eyes going wide as she felt something rub against her backside. Something a great deal…harder…than his chest.

Tom must have heard her, because she felt him stir. She silently cursed herself, but knew that it was perhaps for the best, since sadly, she would have to be leaving soon, as she could see the sky beginning to lighten outside.

"Whaaaa…?" he sleepily groaned, wincing at the soreness and stiffness of his muscles. The bed in the chauffeur's cottage was nowhere near as comfortable as the one he had slept in inside the house. However, unlike that bed, there was something much more pleasant to be found in this one.

Tom stared at the mass of brown curls fell across the pillow beside him, and he felt his body stiffen as he realized that his arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tight to his chest, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. _Because it is,_ a voice in his head told him.

And like Sybil, his memories from the previous night came rushing back, memories of finding her waiting for him in the cottage, of her speaking to him, assuring him that the tall, dark-haired git who had swept her up in his arms was _not_ her fiancée, despite what he had said, and then telling him that he could kiss her, that she wanted him to kiss her.

And then his realization that he loved her. Or rather, his personal admission that he loved her. His feelings for this extraordinary woman had been growing for quite some time…perhaps since he had first met her.

And despite his better judgment, he gave in to the temptation; he took her in his arms and kissed her, deeply. Not a gentle peck on the lips, not even a soft, lingering kiss, but a hard, deep, hungry kiss, where he groaned at the sweet taste of her lips and tongue, where he felt his blood pounding in his ears, mind, heart, and body. He held her tight, crushed her against him, and felt his passions rise and respond as she eagerly—_EAGERLY_—returned his kiss, moaning what could only be described as pleasure, her hands clutching him, pulling him closer, robbing him of the ability to breathe!

And then she asked him to let her stay.

Sweet Jesus, the images that suddenly clouded his mind. Her body, naked and beautiful and trembling beneath his, her head thrown back, her hair covering the pillow as it was now, her mouth open as she gasped his name as he made love to her…

It would not be the first time he had had such images dance before his mind, and here she was, asking him to let her stay. Oh God in heaven, the temptation to make those dreams reality! Because surely she must know what she was asking, didn't she? Sybil wasn't simple-minded; she was a nurse for heaven's sake! She probably knew more about the human body than most married women!

But she was still innocent. And the idea of giving in to those desires after finally tasting her lips for the first time sickened him. He would be taking advantage of her innocence, or at least he would feel like was he was, even if she freely removed her dress and laid down upon that bed, her naked arms open to him and beckoning him to join her.

No…he couldn't do that.

But at the same time, he couldn't bear to part from her either.

"You're still here," he murmured in surprise as he gazed at her from where he lay. She had turned in his arms when she had felt him stir, her face rosy and pink, but a beautiful smile spreading across her face. God, she was gorgeous.

Sybil giggled softy, her face turning into the pillow to hide her blush. "Well, I did bully you into letting me stay."

He found himself laughing, and a wonderful, warm feeling spread through his body as he gazed back at her. This was the first time he could ever recall waking up with a woman where they hadn't done anything _other than_ sleep. And in all honesty, this was the best experience.

"Oh I wish I didn't have to go…" Sybil groaned, turning and looking towards the window, pouting slightly as the sky continued to lighten. He tried his best to suppress the groan rising up in his chest as his eyes fell to her lips, her pout making them even more enticing.

_Then don't,_ was what he wanted to say. _Stay with me; let's sleep the day away. We'll wake now and then to nourish one another with kisses—yes, let's do more of that. I'm actually quite satisfied with simply lying in your arms, feeling your body next to mine, and kissing you. God knows it's enough that I can kiss you…_

But he knew that it was for the best that she left. He was enough trouble as it were for attempting to strangle Thomas, even though he didn't care what they thought of him or if they banished him forever to the chauffeur's cottage. Well, his back may care, after one night on this horrible mattress, but the truth was, he didn't want Sybil to get into any trouble. And if anyone found out that she, an unmarried earl's daughter, had spent the entire night sleeping next to an Irish working class socialist (who her father thought of as a "servant")…well, heads would roll, no doubt.

"Tom?"

He looked down at her, seeing her large, beautiful eyes gazing up at him, her teeth biting her bottom lip, her face looking a little apprehensive. Oh Lord, was she regretting it now? Staying with him?

"Tom?" she began again, swallowing a nervous lump in her throat. "You're…you're not leaving yet, are you?"

He stared back at her, a momentary feeling of relief washing over him as he realized that she wasn't showing signs of regret for sleeping by his side and kissing him, however that relief was quickly replaced with his own apprehension as he let her words wash over him.

Kieran. His brother was still out there, and somewhere close by! He had been in the village, he had cut off his own hand in order to free himself, in order to save his life! His brother needed his help! He couldn't just abandon his search, not now, not when he was so close!

…But he couldn't abandon her either; not now, not when he had come to terms with how much she meant to him.

Should he tell her? Should he risk it all and tell her that she had captured his heart? That she was the only girl—_woman_, in the world, as far as he was concerned?

"No, love," he murmured, smiling as he watched Sybil's face darken even more, both at his endearment, and at his promise that he wasn't leaving.

…At least not yet.

The truth was, he needed to think about what he should do, not what he wanted to do.

But for the time being, he wasn't going anywhere.

"I do want to help you find Kieran," she quickly added, looking up at him and lifting a hand to his face. Tom sighed and closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, loving the way her fingers felt against his stumbled cheek.

"We'll talk about that later," he murmured, opening his eyes and gazing back at her, his own hand rising to softly touch her cheek, marveling at how soft her skin felt. Softer than silk, he was sure; softer than a dove's breast.

"Later," she whispered, nodding her head, understanding that right now, she needed to return to the house, as she had promised she would. With another reluctant sigh, she rose, quickly finding her shoes and slipping them on, before sighing one more time and pushing herself up and away from the bed, wincing as her muscles protested.

Tom rose too, groaning and wincing like her, the two of them meeting each other's eyes, and laughing, while blushing at the same time. It was so strange, how suddenly…shy, they were feeling with one another. And they hadn't even touched last night, or at least not like _that!_ But things were different now, and there was this new level of intimacy that they suddenly found themselves in, a level that he sometimes wondered if even married couples shared?

They both walked to the cottage door, Sybil reaching for him, and he taking her hand right away, squeezing it softly as they paused before the door. Without a word, she leaned into him, and he quietly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, breathing in her scent as she rested her head against his shoulder, her own arms moving around his body, her palms flat against his back, hugging him tightly. "I miss you," she found herself whispering, and Tom's heart immediately began to ache.

"I'll be right here, love," he reassured, his left hand rising to stroke her hair. "I'm not leaving, I promise."

He felt her relax then, even though her hold on him never lessened. He turned his lips to kiss her brow, missing her as well, knowing that as soon as she released him and walked out that door, the cottage would become unbearably cold.

Sybil turned her face to look up at him, and for a moment they held each other's gazes, exchanging silent promises to words they had not spoken, not out loud, but that were obviously burning in the back of their throats and showing as plain as day on their hearts. She leaned up then on her tip toes, her lips brushing his and smiling, as she once again felt the wonderful soft, firm texture of his mouth press against hers once more.

The second kiss they had shared last night had been like this. And the third, and the fourth. Soft, sweet, and tender. It was not as deep or as frenzied as their first kiss at been, but it was by no means less passionate.

Tom was the one to end the kiss, though he hated doing it. Yet he had to remind himself that he was the one with "experience" in this situation, and it was important to practice restraint when it was needed. He kissed her forehead once again, his hands gently squeezing her shoulders, before taking a step back and opening the cottage door for her.

Sybil sighed but nodded her head. _This is for the best,_ she told herself. Although she also quickly told herself that she would be back to see him again, that she would not only help him find his brother, but that she find a way where the two of them could be together. Now that she had admitted at last to herself what she felt for him, and now after they had kissed and she had spent the night curled up in his arms, she was more determined than ever before.

"I should walk you back," he began, surveying the world beyond the cottage's door, his keen eyes on the lookout for anything that moved.

Sybil shook her head. "No, I'll be alright," she assured. "I can move very quickly. Besides," she glanced up at him and smiled, her teeth once again capturing her bottom lip. "I might be tempted to bring you upstairs to sleep in my bed."

Tom groaned at her words, his hand gripping the door frame to keep his knees from buckling at the seductive promise. Yes, perhaps it was a good idea to put some distance between them? Sybil was innocent, but that didn't mean he should underestimate her power to seduce him.

She smiled at him, blushing brightly, and then leaned up one more time, kissing his cheek, before whispering a goodbye, and then dashing out the door, hurrying across the grass and gravel, his cheek tingling from where she had kissed him, his eyes never blinking or leaving her figure until he saw her disappear back into the house.

Once inside, Sybil shut the terrace door, the same door she had used to sneak out to visit Tom last night. She leaned her body against the door, taking in a deep breath, her lips still trembling and sweetly tingling from kissing him, not to mention the racing of her heart. But the sound of footsteps, quite possibly Ethel come to light the fires before everyone awoke, told Sybil to carry on these thoughts in the safety of her own room. So she moved as quietly and as quickly as possible, climbing the stairs, being sure to tip toe past any rooms where she knew someone slept, glancing over her shoulder once, just to be sure no one was coming up behind her—

"OH!" Sybil gasped, running into someone. She looked and stared at…Ethel?

The housemaid stared back at her, her face paling and her eyes growing wide.

Sybil's brow furrowed with confusion. Where on earth…?

"I um…is there anything I can help you with, milady?" Ethel stammered.

Sybil opened her mouth to reply, but stopped short as she took in Ethel's appearance. Her hair was down, and her dress looked disheveled, as if…as if it were hastily put back on? She also noticed that the woman was clutching something to her chest, and from what Sybil could tell in the early morning shadows, it looked like…a corset?

Her eyes flew then to the housemaid's, whose own widened once again, and now whose face had gone from pale to deep red. "Please, milady, please, I beg you, please don't say anything?" Ethel reached out and gripped Sybil's hand, looking frightened and desperate and needing to be reassured.

Sybil was stunned; apparently she hadn't been the only one spending the night in a bed that wasn't her own. But she nodded her head, knowing that she was hardly one to pass judgment; although her mind now flew as to which room it was that Ethel had come out of?

Ethel noticed Sybil's nod, and breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, milady, thank you, thank you!" she repeated over and over, squeezing Sybil's hand, so grateful that of all people to run into, it was Lady Sybil. However, it was also at this moment that the redhead seemed to realize that Sybil was in a state that wasn't too different from her own; disheveled dress, unkempt hair…

"Best be going, Ethel," Sybil whispered, for once using the authority of her title over another. She hated doing that, but she could see that Ethel was beginning to put her own puzzle pieces together.

Ethel's head snapped back up to meet Sybil's gaze, and simply gave a small nod, before turning on her heel and rushing towards the servant's staircase, not looking back, not once.

However, as she made the climb back towards her room, she couldn't help but wonder where it was that Lady Sybil had come from, as she was clearly on her own way back to her own room. _Of all people,_ she found herself thinking. _Lady Sybil is the last I would have suspected capable of doing _that!And really, there was only one possibility…

* * *

The felt warm. Too warm.

Robert had been lying on his side, his back to Cora who was having a very fitful night of sleep. He had awoken her earlier, believing she was having a nightmare, no doubt reliving that horrible incident that had taken place earlier in the garden. Cora seemed somewhat delirious, as if she wasn't sure where she was. Eventually she calmed down, and asked if he could fetch her some water. She drank three full glasses in three giant gulps, causing Robert's eyebrows to lift with worry. Was she alright? However, when he reached to touch her cheek, she moved away from him, thanking him for the water, before turning her back and settling down on the bed, pulling the covers up her chin.

Not really knowing what else to do, Robert also laid back down, hoping sleep would return easily. But it was difficult, because after everything else that had happened recently at the house, he now couldn't stop thinking about Cora, wondering if she truly was "just thirsty" or if there was something wrong? Now, he glanced over at his wife again, and found himself frowning. "Cora?" he murmured softly in the dark. She seemed to be trembling! Was she cold? He had no idea how, since it was so warm in the room—

"Good God!" he gasped. He had reached over to touch his wife's arm, and it felt as if he were touching hot metal.

Her skin was burning! He turned her quickly onto her back, wincing at the heat of her skin and staring in horror at the pale color of her face, her cheeks lacking their beautiful rosiness, her brow covered in sweat, the pillow soaked, her nightgown soaked, even the sheet which she clung to was soaked! And yet she continued to shiver! _Oh no…_

Robert leapt out of bed and ran across the room to the door, hurrying into the corridor and taking the servant's staircase up, not caring at how unusual it looked for the lord and master of the house to be seen in the servant's quarters. He found himself outside Carson's bedroom, and he furiously knocked on the butler's door.

A sound came from just over Robert's shoulder, and he turned to see a door creaking open, and then quickly shutting. He frowned, wondering who that was, but his attention was drawn back to Carson's door, as the Downton butler opened it, looking cross for having been disturbed from his slumber, but his expression sobering when he realized it was Robert, himself.

"My Lord?" he asked, opening his door a little wider. "Is something wrong?" he asked, noticing the expression on his Lordship's face and seeing the rising panic.

"Carson," Robert began, trying very desperately to sound calm, when in truth he was terrified. "I need you to fetch Dr. Clarkson and have him go to her Ladyship's bedroom at once, I—" he glanced over his shoulder again, thinking he heard that other door creak again.

Nothing.

"I'm sorry," Robert muttered, turning back to the butler, looking utterly embarrassed. "I wouldn't even think of disturbing you, but…but I confess, I…I don't know what room he's staying in, and—"

"It's alright, milord," Carson quickly reassured. "I'll fetch him myself; and I'll have Mrs. Hughes send Miss O'Brien to her Ladyship at once."

Robert nodded his head, grateful as always, for Carson's assistance. "Thank you, my friend," he murmured, meaning every word, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to keep his nerves calm, when in truth he wanted to throw his head back and scream, before breaking down into a blubbering mess.

Cora was his rock, the one he clung to for both comfort and sanity's sake during the War, and even more so during this chaotic period that followed. If anything happened to her, he didn't know what he would—

No, no, nothing was going to happen to her. She was going to be _fine_, he told himself over and over. She _had_ to be!

* * *

Lavinia awoke, her body and mind weary from all the recent events that had been happening. Even though she had slept very soundly the previous night, almost the second her head made contact with the pillow, she felt even more tired now, than on a morning after a restless night where she had barely slept for fear that a Walker would attack.

With a groan, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, her mind going over those recent events, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Her mother was dead.

Her father was dead.

She had no one left in the world.

And even though she was staying in a house, surrounded by other people, she had never felt lonelier than she did now. She knew she wasn't welcome here, despite what Matthew said. And despite Matthew's kindness to her, despite his friendship, she was well aware now—_painfully_ aware now, that his heart truly belonged to the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter, the woman whose name she had heard him murmur in his sleep when he was recovering. She had at one point thought—perhaps even hoped—that she could be…_more_ than just a friend to Capt. Matthew Crawley…

But no; no, it was not to be.

…Just as her father had warned her.

Lavinia sighed and forced herself out of bed. She began to dress, not bothering with ringing any bell to ask any servant to come and help her. She had been getting by for months without any such help, she could manage another morning. When she was finished, she quietly exited the room and began to make her way to the breakfast room, noticing how unusually…quiet…everything seemed.

Perhaps they're all in mourning? That made sense, she thought. She remembered poor William's passing, the attack which he managed to save Daisy from, but was unable to save himself. She remembered sitting there, feeling a bit like an intruder as Daisy held William, murmuring words of love in his ear, asking Matthew to marry the two of them, and witnessing a moment of beauty in the world torn apart by pain and the ugliness of death. She also remembered how Matthew's youngest cousin, and the Irishman who he was friends with, clung to each other as if by holding one another they were giving the other oxygen to breathe. And of course, surrounded by these couples, she found herself looking at Matthew, her own heart aching for comfort, for—

Well, that was all in the past. It was time to move forward, she told herself. No sense crying over spilt milk, her mother had always said. And there was no sense in crying over a broken heart, especially when the man to whom she had wanted to give her heart, belonged to another and always had.

She paused before entering the breakfast room, taking a few deep breaths, her fingers quickly wiping away and residue of tears from her eyes and cheeks, and putting on an expression that she hoped look calming, and finally entered.

The room was empty.

Save for one person.

"Oh!" Lavinia was a bit startled. Her eyes quickly looked around the room, but saw no one else, not even the Dowager Countess who always seemed to be occupying a chair near the window.

The man who was seated at the table quickly rose to his feet, and bowed his head. "Good morning," he greeted, quickly lifting his napkin to his lips and wiping them, looking a bit embarrassed for his sudden forgetfulness in manners.

Lavinia felt her cheeks blush slightly, and she murmured the greeting back. "Um…I confess, I'm surprised that…that no one else is here…?"

The gentleman, whom she had briefly met last night, shook his head. "No, I um…I believe they are visiting Lady Grantham."

Lavinia frowned at this. "Is she alright?"

The gentleman didn't look certain. "I honestly don't know. But I was told by Lady Mary that it was nothing to worry about when I offered if I could be of service."

"I see," Lavinia murmured. Yes, if she remembered correctly, the gentleman was introduced to her as a longtime friend of the Crawley family. And while the words had not been spoken, she had a feeling that he was also, at least once upon a time, an admirer of Lady Mary.

"I beg your pardon, I should introduce myself," he apologized. "Evelyn Napier," he greeted, smiling at her and reaching across the table, offering his hand to shake.

Lavinia smiled at the gentleman and took his hand in hers. "Lavinia Swire," she returned. "And…it's Capt. Napier, is it not?"

The gentleman (Capt. Napier) seemed to blush slightly at this. "I don't know if such titles truly matter anymore," he murmured. "But yes, I served in the British Army and reached the rank of captain."

She nodded her head at this. "And…your friends?" She remembered the other two gentlemen who were with him last night. One was a very tall man, with dark hair and piercing eyes, and who had surprised everyone by sweeping Sybil up into his arms once they had returned from the village, declaring the two of them engaged! The other man she hadn't spoken to at all; he was not as tall as the other, but also had dark hair and a moustache.

"Ah yes, they um…I think are still sleeping," he confessed, looking a little embarrassed. "You would think after so many years of serving in the army they would be used to waking up at an early hour—"

"Yes, but no doubt these are the first proper beds they have slept in for some time," she reasoned, smiling at Capt. Napier. "I can't say I blame them for oversleeping."

He smiled at this and nodded his head. "You're a great deal kinder than any general we encountered, Miss Swire."

He then offered her a chair, across the table from him and before Lavinia had unwrapped her napkin to lay across her lap, he had proceeded to fetch her a bowl of porridge from the sideboard. "I'm afraid this is all there is," he explained, placing the bowl in front of her.

Lavinia shrugged her shoulders, not minding. "As mouthwatering as sausages sound, I'm grateful for anything, really."

He nodded his head in agreement. "And at least it's warm."

"Yes, a small luxury that we too often take for granted," she sighed. "And how sad it is to have something as severe as…well, as _this_, to remind us."

He looked at her for a moment, and Lavinia once again felt her cheeks flush slightly. Not since Matthew, had she spoken for so long with another man.

"Lady Mary told me that you have quite a story to tell, Miss Swire."

Lavinia wasn't sure how to respond to this. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Yes, about how you and your father had survived for so long in London, which…" he paused, his eyes glazing over as if he were recalling some horrific memory. "Which is a miracle, truly," he murmured, more to himself than to her. He looked back at her and continued. "And then you managed to travel all the way here to Yorkshire, on horseback?"

Lavinia nodded her head, looking down at her porridge, her spoon turning tiny circles in the mixture. She bit her lip as she let her mind wander to her father again, to how dependent the two of them had been upon the other, and how strange it felt, still, even though it had been weeks…to suddenly be here, without him. She was proud of herself for doing what she had done, for making it to Yorkshire and finding Matthew, and she knew her father would have been proud of her too. But it still hurt, so much, to be here without him…

"Miss Swire?"

She looked up at Capt. Napier, only realizing then that tears must have been falling down her face, because he looked horrified with himself.

"Oh God, forgive me, I apologize for my insensitivity—"

"No, no, it's quite alright," she assured him, quickly wiping her cheeks with her napkin and putting a smile back on. "Um…yes, yes, it is quite a story, actually," she murmured, blushing slightly that Lady Mary had said anything. She wondered why?

"I should say so," Capt. Napier added. "And judging from Lady Mary had told me, which wasn't much, please understand," he was quick to defend. "But…well, it was quite clear to me that Lady Mary admired you for what you had done, and I cannot deny, I was eager to learn more, but…but clearly that is cutting to the quick a little too closely, so please, forgive me—"

"No, no, it's alright," she assured again. She couldn't deny, she was surprised by this revelation that Lady Mary admired her, or found anything admirable about her. While the woman had been nothing but polite and hospitable to her, Lavinia would never go so far as to say that the eldest daughter to the Earl of Grantham liked her, let alone admired her. But judging from the way this man spoke…she did not believe he was lying, or stretching the truth.

And suddenly, despite the pain of telling such stories, she very much wanted to tell him her story, to tell him everything if he was willing to listen to her. She wanted—no, she _needed_ to talk to someone. And while she barely knew him, Capt. Napier seemed very kind and like someone she could trust.

And it wasn't until much later, that she realized that during her time speaking with Capt. Evelyn Napier, she had barely thought of Matthew.

* * *

He had heard the commotion outside his room, and quickly rose to see what was the matter. The voices who spoke were hushed, but worried. He frowned as he opened the door, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, and walked down the corridor to where he saw Mary, dressed similarly, speaking with Mrs. Hughes.

"Mary?" he asked, looking concerned. Both she and the housekeeper lifted their heads to look at him, and Mary murmured something to Mrs. Hughes, who nodded her head, before turning and hurrying in the opposite direction. Matthew frowned, his concern growing. "What's wrong?"

Mary folded her arms across her chest, very much aware that she was standing in only her dressing gown in front of Matthew. Although this wasn't the first time they had seen each other in such…intimate…attire, it still caused her to blush. She sighed, a part of her thinking that she should put on a smile and reassure him that everything was fine and under control, that he should go back to bed, that no doubt he was extremely tired after the ordeals he had endured yesterday.

But if truth be told, she was tired too; tired of being the strength and backbone for the family when everything seemed to be crumbling around them. And after last night, after their talk, after everything they had said and revealed to each other, both in words and with their eyes, she didn't want to bear these burdens by herself any longer. And she didn't want to keep him in the dark, either.

"Mama is very ill," she explained, trying hard to keep a calming demeanor, when in truth, she wanted to throw her head back and scream in frustration, before giving in to the temptation to break down.

Matthew's eyes widened at her words, and he looked past her to the door that led to Cora's bedroom. "Is it…is it bad?"

Mary opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, feeling her breath catch in her throat. She closed her eyes, counted silently to herself, before opening them and speaking again. "I'm not sure," she answered honestly, her emotions under control once again. "Papa awoke, saying that she was burning up with fever, and…and went to fetch Carson who then fetched Dr. Clarkson—both he and Papa and O'Brien are in there with her now, and Sybil and Edith have gone downstairs to see what they can find in the supply cupboard that may help, but…" she paused, her hand covering her mouth and closing her eyes once again, knowing that if she continued speaking, she would not be able to keep the tears from flowing, or her fear from taking control. She had briefly caught a glimpse of her mother, and the sight was horrifying.

"Mary," he took a step towards her, his arms aching to hold her and offer her the comfort he knew she wanted but was perhaps still a little proud to ask for. She needed strength right now, and he wanted to give her strength. So instead, he offered his hands to her, and gratefully smiled as he felt her take them, squeezing them tightly as she laced their fingers together.

They stood like that for a long while, simply holding hands, but giving each other strength. He didn't speak, he simply stood there for her, hoping that somehow, he was being more helpful to her than a hindrance.

"Papa fears that it's Spanish Flu…" she spoke after a long moment, her eyes cast downward at their hands.

Matthew's eyes widened at this. "Is he certain?"

She shook her head. "That's why Dr. Clarkson is seeing to her; there were some cases of Spanish Flu reported up here before…" her voice trailed off, and Matthew understood why. Indeed, he imagined something like Spanish Flu falling between the cracks of the War and now everything that had happened after it.

"Mary, I'll go back to the hospital to get anything he needs—I'll leave right now, if it means—"

"No!" she shushed him, her eyes meeting his, hard and intense. "No, you will do no such thing!"

"But if it helps—"

"After nearly losing your life in that cursed place? TWICE? No, no, I will not hear it," she practically growled, her hands gripping his tightly, daring him to argue with her. He couldn't deny, her ferocious protest caused his heart to soar. Yes…perhaps…perhaps there was still a chance for them?

"What's going on?"

Any light in Matthew's eyes dimmed, and his jaw set in a hard line as he heard the voice of Sir Richard Carlisle coming up behind him. Both he and Mary let go of each other, and he slowly turned to face the other man.

Sir Richard eyed him for a moment, before moving past him to Mary's side, his own hands reaching out and taking hers in them. "My dear, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," she hastily told him, forcing a smile, while also giving his hands a squeeze before attempting to pull them away. Matthew watched the body language between the two, and it was quite obvious to anyone that Sir Richard's touch and presence was most unwelcome.

The newspaperman's eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced back at Matthew, before looking once again at his fiancée. Despite Mary's attempt to pull her hands away, his grip only tightened. "This doesn't look like 'nothing'…" he murmured, an edge of warning in his voice. Matthew's jaw tightened even more, and found himself taking a threatening step closer.

"Mama is ill," Mary explained, noticing the tension between the two men, and quickly doing what she could to defuse it. "Dr. Clarkson is in there with her now."

Sir Richard lifted his brows at this. "Is it serious?"

Mary looked down. "We don't know," she honestly answered. "Papa thinks it might be Spanish Flu, but we don't know—Dr. Clarkson will be able to tell us soon enough, no doubt."

"No doubt," Sir Richard murmured. He glanced again at Matthew, before turning his attentions once more to Mary, moving an arm around her shoulders as if to provide her with comfort.

It was the most awkward moment of physical contact Matthew had ever witnessed, the still way Mary stood there while Sir Richard moved to hold her. He couldn't deny that the gesture caused his own hands to clench into fists.

Mary forced a smile, and then moved away from Sir Richard, stepping out of his awkward embrace and stepping away from the both of them. "I should go and see to our guests; no doubt they are rising and will be at breakfast, and since Papa and Mama cannot be there, it is my duty to play hostess."

"Mary," Matthew began, his hand reaching out for her. "You don't have to—"

"No, I should," she said, looking determined. "I can hardly do anything more here, and right now I need a task." She smiled at them both again, before turning and walking with her head held high down the corridor, back to her own room to change, before descending to the breakfast room.

Leaving both Matthew and Sir Richard alone. Together.

The two men looked at each other, and any pretense they may have performed while in Mary's presence quickly vanished.

"I don't know what game you're playing at, Capt. Crawley—"

"Game?" Matthew sputtered.

"Aye," Sir Richard growled, his Scottish accent starting to show. "But since I have been told over and over by many here that you are an 'honorable man', then I shall trust you to do the honorable thing, which is leave my fiancée alone."

Matthew's eyes blazed as he glared back the newspaperman. "I'm not the one whose touch she clearly despises," he growled.

Sir Richard took a threatening step towards him. "I will not ask again," he threatened. "Lady Mary is _mine_; she is engaged to _me_. You had your chance years ago, and it's _your own_ damn fault that you lost her. Accept your defeat and move on!"

Matthew lifted his chin, answering Sir Richard's threatening step with one of his own. "Mary belongs to no man; she never has and she never will. She makes her own decisions, and if she decides that she wants to be with you instead of me, or any other man, then so be it; I'll not stand in her way. However, if she decides that she wants to be with me, then so help me God, I will not let anyone—_anyone_—stand in her way, either."

"So you will not back down—"

"I will not let you bully her!"

"What's going on out here?" Sarah O'Brien growled, glaring at both men who stood outside her Ladyship's door. "Based on the amount of snarling I was hearing, I thought that there were two dogs barking at each other, not two gentlemen."

Both men glared at each other one last time, before taking two steps back, Matthew murmuring an apology to O'Brien, Sir Richard simply turning and walking away, no doubt to go and follow Mary. Matthew sighed and focused once again on the lady's maid. "Please tell Robert that if there is anything he needs—"

"What her Ladyship needs is peace and quiet!" O'Brien snapped, her eyes narrowing as she glared back at Matthew. "She needs her rest, and the two of you arguing out here like a pair of gamecocks isn't helping!"

Matthew apologized once again, stood there for an awkward moment, and then muttered something about going and seeing if Sybil or Edith needed his help with bringing medical supplies upstairs. Only after the captain had finally turned to leave, did Sarah turn back inside her Ladyship's room.

Dr. Clarkson was examining the wound on her arm, which had begun to blacken sometime during the night. Her Ladyship was very pale, but also very fevered, and she seemed to be in a bit of a delirium, mumbling incoherent things every so often.

"Oh God," Robert groaned, sitting in a nearby chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face, his cheeks wet with tears as he stared at the sight of his beautiful wife, struck with sickness, dying for all he knew, and he felt so utterly helpless.

Dr. Clarkson lifted his head then, looking directly at Sarah, his look very grave. "And…you say that she was bitten?"

Sarah sighed, nodding her head, but looking just as unsure and helpless as his Lordship felt. "That's what she told me; I thought…I thought by putting some salve on the wound and dressing it, that would do the trick! But…but she seems so much worse now—"

Dr. Clarkson sighed and turned to look at his Lordship, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. Sarah frowned as she noticed that the two men were exchanging a look, one that filled her heart with dread. "O'Brien…" his Lordship murmured, taking a deep breath. "Would you be so good as to wait outside—"

"Beggin' your pardon, your Lordship, but I'd rather not," she growled, not caring if she was deliberately disobeying the Earl of Grantham. She would not be parted from her Lady now, not at the moment when she needed her most. "Whatever the good doctor has to say to you, he can say in my presence, seeing as I'll be the one caring for her."

Lord Grantham looked shocked by O'Brien's statement, but Sarah stood her ground, lifting her chin. If he wanted her to leave, he would have to pick her up and carry her out himself.

"It's just as well," Dr. Clarkson murmured. "Since O'Brien was with her when it happened, it's just as well that she hears."

Sarah didn't like the sound of that.

Dr. Clarkson looked back and forth between Lord Grantham and the lady's maid, before taking a deep breath and revealing the horrible truth.

"Lady Grantham is infected."

Robert swore his heart stopped beating. "Spanish Flu?"

"No," Dr. Clarkson answered quickly. "No…she…" he looked down at her, sighing and hanging his head. "Because she was bitten by…by a Walker," he said, using the word that he had heard Capt. Crawley use. "She…she has been infected by the virus they carry."

Both Robert and Sarah looked confused by this. "Virus?" Robert asked. "What…what do you mean, 'virus'? What virus?"

Dr. Clarkson looked down at the ground, shaking his head. "That's what I've been trying to learn; what Mrs. Crawley went to York to learn; whatever makes them…Walkers, is carried by some sort of virus. And when a Walker bites someone, they become infected with that virus and…and…" his voice trailed off, as Robert stared at him, horror filling his eyes as his face grew paler and paler.

"Are you…are you saying that…that Cora is…is going to…?" he couldn't finish the sentence; it was too horrific to imagine!

"No," Sarah growled, stepping closer and actually shoving the doctor in the shoulder. "No, you must have some cure! You're a doctor! There must be something you can do!"

Robert found himself nodding in agreement. "Yes, you said so yourself that you've been working on a cure! There must be something—"

"I can't make any guarantees!" Dr. Clarkson interrupted, taking a step back. They were both advancing upon him in their demand for solutions. "I…I…I might be able to help," he answered. "But…but not here."

Robert's brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'not here'?"

"I mean that Lady Grantham needs to be transported to my lab in the village, in the hospital—"

"OUT OF THE QUESTION!" Robert roared. "After everything that has been endured over the last few days, I WILL NOT be sending my wife to that place!"

"Lord Grantham, it's the only way!" Dr. Clarkson explained. "I can't transport all my equipment to the house! And despite what Capt. Crawley and others have endured over the past few days, the lab that I keep is perfectly safe; she will be safe there, I promise!"

Robert groaned and shook his head, clearly doubting the doctor's promises. However, Sarah was glancing at her Lady, seeing her tremble and clutch at her sheets, while her skin and was covered in perspiration, the fever raging through her body.

"It's the only way, your Lordship," she murmured, her eyes focused on her Lady.

Robert looked at O'Brien, his brow furrowed. "What?"

She turned and met his gaze with a steel one of her own. "It's the only way," she repeated. "What matters is saving her life, and doing whatever it takes."

Robert glanced at Cora, his heart breaking as he watched her gasp for water, complaining in her delirium about how thirsty she was. No…no, God, he could not lose her!

"Alright," he sighed, feeling utterly wretched and helpless. "Whatever it takes," he whispered, repeating O'Brien's words.

Dr. Clarkson nodded his head, moving past Robert to go and gather his things from his room, to prepare for their journey back into the village. However, before he passed, Robert reached out and grasped the man's arm, saying one final word of warning.

"Tell no one." He met O'Brien's eyes, his words meant for her as well. "No one outside of this room knows about this."


	32. Reality

_Sorry for the delay! Sometimes the muse takes a vacation on certain stories, but here it is, another update (I know, finally) and our characters continue to face some new harsh realities. I don't really have much more to say than that, which means I should just shut up and give you the fic :oP THANK YOU as always, for reading and reviewing! I hope you enjoy (and prepare yourself for the roller coaster...) ;o)_

* * *

_Chapter Thirty-Two_

"**Reality"**

She clutched the pillow to her chest, hiding her face against its surface, her tears soaking through the fabric. She lay atop her bed, curled into a tight ball, trembling as she sobbed, holding the pillow even tighter.

It was a poor substitute for her mother.

"Edith?"

She sniffled as she heard her sister's voice on the other side of the door. She was tempted to ignore it, to continue grieving in silence and solitude, but if truth be told, she really didn't want to be alone. And thankfully Sybil knew it.

"Edith?" Sybil's voice murmured, carefully opening the door and poking her head inside. Her eyes scanned the shadowed room, the curtains having been drawn to shut out the sunlight that tried to stream in.

"Over here," Edith whispered, sitting up a little and turning towards her sister.

"Oh Edith," Sybil sighed, shutting the door behind her and quickly moving across the room to the bed, wasting no time in coming around to her sister's side and gathering her in her arms and hugging her close. "Ssshhh, it's going to be alright," she tried to sooth, running a comforting hand up and down her sister's back.

Edith clutched Sybil, burying her face against her sister's shoulder, sobbing anew as Sybil's arms held her and rocked her. It was so strange, sometimes; Sybil was the youngest of them all, and yet there were moments when she seemed like the oldest and wisest. How often was it that Sybil tried to be the peacemaker between herself and Mary? The voice of reason? She certainly had more success in getting the two of them to pause in their disputes than either of their parents. And right now, here she was again, being calm and sweet, comforting her as a mother would comfort her child…which brought about fresh tears at the thought.

"Oh Sybil!" she wailed. "I…I…I'll never…I'll never forgive myself!"

Sybil's hand continued to run up and down Edith's back. "Hush now," she murmured.

But Edith shook her head. "No, no, you don't understand!" she gasped, pulling away to look into her baby sister's eyes. "The last words we exchanged! They were…they were filled with so much anger!"

"Mama knows you didn't mean it—"

"But I did!" Edith moaned, guilt and nausea overwhelming her at the memories of the heated exchange she had had with her mother, the hurtful accusations she had thrown at her, when her mother begged that Edith talk to her, and Edith had thrown back, _"why do you care now?"_ She knew her words had hurt her mother; and if she were honest with herself, that had been their intent. She was upset and angry, and wanted her mother to know that, but at the same time, wanted her mother to know that part of the reason she was so upset was because she did feel forgotten, she did feel neglected. She felt like a spare part, one that had no use until it was too late.

And now things were too late.

"She…she tried to make amends," Edith explained, hiccupping between sobs. "She came to my room…trying…trying to make things right…and I…I…I just…" she couldn't continue. She remembered the things she had said and she was ashamed of them. Because despite the pain she felt, it hadn't been right to unleash her anger upon her mother, especially when her mother was truly trying to help.

And now her mother was dying. No, no, not dying, but…but it was strong possibility.

_"It's as I feared," her father had told all of them, gathered in the drawing room. "Your mother," he said, looking directly at herself and her sisters, "has Spanish Flu."_

_ Her hand flew to her mouth, and immediately she felt the sob well up in her throat, threatening to choke her if she did not release it. Mary sat rigidly straight, her own eyes wide and her mouth open, but she didn't say anything. Sybil looked shocked by their father's words, and she actually leapt to her feet, looking as if she were ready to burst from the drawing room and go see for herself, but their father lifted a hand, and Mary reached out for Sybil, gently coaxing her back down to sit next to her._

_ She couldn't remember the last time she and Mary had exchanged any sort of gesture of affection, but in that moment, holding their little sister's hand tightly in her left, Mary reached for Edith with her right, and upon finding her hand, clutched it and held it, as if seeking the strength of her sisters…and trying to radiate strength to them._

_Together, the three of them, they sat huddled, hands clasped together, while Matthew, Sir Richard, Miss Swire, Mr. Napier, Carson, and their grandmother stood or sat around them. _

_ "Dr. Clarkson is with her now," their father went on to explain. "He…he is afraid that…that long exposure could infect…" he paused, as if trying to compose himself. Perhaps he was in danger on choking on a sob as well? "He has advised that she be moved to another room," he continued after taking a deep breath. "And so she has, somewhere in the east wing—she is not to be disturbed by anyone, is that understood?" he warned, his voice somewhat threatening as he looked at each and every one of them with a very stern expression. He then lifted his eyes to the Downton butler. "Carson?"_

_"Yes, milord," Carson replied with an obedient bow of his head. "I shall inform the staff that no one is to disturb her Ladyship."_

_ "But…but surely…someone needs to—?" Sybil began, but their father was ten steps ahead. _

_ "O'Brien will look after her."_

_ "O'Brien?" Mary asked. "All by herself?"_

_"Dr. Clarkson will be seeing to her as well," their father explained, although he seemed to be avoiding their eyes._

_ "But…" she somehow managed to find her voice then and looked up at her father, wondering why on earth he wouldn't look her directly in the eye. "But…but won't they be in danger of infection—?"_

_ "O'Brien insists," their father explained through clipped lips. "She will see to your mother's care and recovery, as will Dr. Clarkson."_

_ "But Papa!" Sybil spoke up again, wrestling her hand free from Mary and rising once more. "Surely O'Brien needs some help? Let me; as a nurse—"_

_ "No, Sybil," he cut off, shaking his head. _

_ "But I can be of help! In fact I even worked with a few patients suffering from Spanish Flu before—"_

_ "I SAID NO, SYBIL!"_

_ All of them jumped at the sound of his roar, and Sybil found herself practically collapsing back down next to Mary, who automatically reached for her once again. _

_ "NO ONE," he growled, looking at the three of them and then lifting his eyes to the others, "NO ONE…" he repeated. "IS TO GO NEAR OR DISTURB YOUR MOTHER WHILE SHE RECOVERS! IS THAT CLEAR?"_

_"Robert…" Matthew murmured, his voice soft but firm, as he took a step towards their father, his gaze steady, something which seemed to cause their father to shrink back, slightly. _

_ Their father took several long, deep, shaky breaths, and now it was Mary who was rising, releasing hers and Sybil's hands and looking at their father with deep concern. "Papa?" she murmured, reaching out for him._

_ She couldn't recall the last time she had seen her father cry. Had she ever seen him cry? She remembered when her mother had lost the child that would have been her brother and the heir to Downton. Her father grieved then, but he preferred to keep to himself, to hide away so no one could see his tears. Truly, this was the first time she could recall seeing him so upset, and on instinct she rose to her feet, moving past Mary until she had her arms wrapped around his waist, burying her face against his chest and releasing the sobs that were choking her._

_ It had been so long since she had been comforted like this; she felt like a little girl all over again. But this time was different; this time her father was grieving beside her, grieving for her mother who was ill and could possibly die._

_ And she blamed herself._

"Edith…" she was brought out of her thoughts by her sister, who was cupping her face and bringing her gaze back.

Edith swallowed and looked down at her lap, her hands grasping a soaked handkerchief. Her mind wandered back once again to the drawing room, to when everyone dispersed, after their father's revelation. Carson left to tell the rest of the staff, Miss Swire and Mr. Napier left, Mr. Napier making some comment about looking for Larry Grey and Maj. Bryant who had yet to make an appearance that morning. Mary remained where she was for a moment, Matthew walking across the room to where she stood, but before he could reach her, Sir Richard stepped forward and put an arm around her sister. Mary moved then, walking out of the drawing room without a word, going where? Edith didn't know. But both Matthew and Sir Richard were left, standing rather awkwardly in place, and from what she could see, silently fuming at each other. Sir Richard left then, although he went out an opposite door to the one Mary had disappeared. Sybil had moved over to their grandmother, who mumbled something about helping her back to her room. Finally, her father murmured something into her hair, gave a kiss to her brow, and then turned to leave the drawing room as well. Matthew followed, and there she stood, alone.

Always alone, or so it felt.

"It's true, Sybil," she murmured, looking at her sister, her vision blurry from her tears. "Mama could die, thinking that I hate her!"

"She would NEVER think that!" Sybil argued, reaching for her hands then and gripping them tightly. "Never!"

"And she's not going to die," came a familiar and cold voice from the doorway. Both Edith and Sybil lifted their heads to see Mary standing there, her back straight and her eyes set in a steady frown, but it was one filled with determination. "She will not die…so get that notion out of your head this instant."

"Mary…" Sybil murmured, her eyes lifting to their sister, perhaps urging the eldest Crawley girl to not sound so harsh. Yet ironically, although she would never admit it, Edith appreciated Mary's sudden appearance and her harsh words. She didn't want to think that their mother's life was hanging in the balance somewhere in the east wing of the house.

Mary sighed and looked down at her own hands which were folded in front of her. "Forgive me, Sybil, this is going to sound very odd and it really isn't the appropriate time, but…" she lifted her eyes to meet their little sister's. "Mrs. Hughes wonders if you could see Mrs. Patmore? She fears that she might be ill—"

"Spanish Flu?" Edith gasped, lifting her handkerchief to cover a hiccup.

"No of course not," Mary said, a bit too harshly, but closed her eyes, giving Edith a silent apology with a simple nod of her head. "No, she…well, as far as Mrs. Hughes is aware, she hasn't eaten anything since yesterday, and…" her voice trailed off, not really sure what to say, although Edith knew the reason, remembering the Downton cook screaming poor William's name when she learned the truth of what had become of the former footman.

"Of course," Sybil murmured, rising from Edith's bed, but first kissing Edith's cheek before turning and leaving the room.

An awkward silence fell upon the room then, as Mary remained where she stood in the doorway, and Edith remained on the bed, neither one of them looking at the other save for a few seconds here and there.

"I should go and find Miss Swire," Mary murmured, more to herself than to Edith. She then looked at Edith and once again, that cool Crawley demeanor that Edith had always accused Mary of having returned, as she lifted her chin and muttered, "Don't waste the entire day in here. Get out; be useful. That is what will help Mama; not your tears."

Her words stung, but Edith was used to it. She was also used to retaliating, however her heart felt too sick to even attempt. So instead, she simply nodded her head, even though Mary had already turned her back on her and was about to leave the room. However, she did pause once more, before looking over her shoulder and catching Edith's gaze.

"Write to her."

Edith's brow furrowed with confusion. "W-w-what?" she stammered.

"Mama," Mary explained. "If you are worried as to what she thinks, then write to her. I doubt she will be in any condition to read it, not until she gets better of course," Mary insisted. "But I have no doubt O'Brien would read it out loud to her; and if that will help ease your conscious, then so be it." Mary didn't say anymore after that. She left without another word, disappearing somewhere down the corridor.

Edith remained where she was for another moment, lifting a trembling hand to her eyes to wipe away the residue of her tears. She took a long, shaky breath, before rising at last, and crossing the room to her writing desk, where she proceeded to sit down and gather ink, pen, and paper. Even though there were a million things she wanted to say, she had absolutely no idea what to write.

Except for the first words.

The first words came quite easily.

_Mama—I love you. And I'm so sorry._

* * *

She was moving quickly down the servant's corridor upstairs, grabbing a few items from her room, before hurrying back to where she was needed. However, as she passed an all too familiar door, a hand snaked out and gripped her elbow, stopping her mid stride.

"Oi!" Thomas hissed, poking his head out from his room, glancing each way to make sure no one else was around. "What's going on? What's happening?"

Sarah shook his grip from her arm and glared back at him. She had no time for this…

"Go downstairs and Mr. Carson will be sure to provide you with the information you seek," she muttered.

Thomas made a face at her suggestion. "Not bloody likely," he grumbled. "Not so long as Mr. Branson is still—"

"Mr. Branson has been banished to the chauffeur's cottage and that is where he will remain," Sarah growled, growing very irritated by Thomas' sniveling and cowardice. For all the talk the footman gave fighting Walkers and chaining mad Irishmen to walls, he certainly liked to hide behind her skirts. "I need to go," she muttered, but Thomas grabbed her arm again.

"Why? What's happening?"

"I told you, Mr. Carson—"

"I'm not asking Mr. Carson, I'm asking _you!"_ he snarled, his ice blue eyes glaring back at her. He didn't frighten her for a second, despite how "intimidating" he thought he was. However, she knew he wouldn't stop demanding answers if she didn't give him any, and the sooner she did, the sooner she could return to her Lady.

"What have you heard?" she groaned.

"His Lordship came up here early, before the sun was even over the horizon. Knocked on the old codger's door and said he needed Dr. Clarkson; something to do with her Ladyship?"

Sarah watched her friend's face the entire time, her eyes scanning his to see if he was telling the whole truth. From what she could gather, this truly was all he knew. The big question was, how much to share with him? Even though she and Thomas schemed a great deal together, she perhaps trusted him the least out of any other person in this house, including Bates. Thomas always had a special card up his sleeve; no doubt that was how he had managed to survive this long. And she had little doubt that if push came to shove, he would shove her right off a cliff if it meant saving his own skin, or perhaps somehow…_advance_ himself, above her.

Still…it was a tremendous burden to bear, this secret.

"If you must know," she began. "Her Ladyship is ill."

Thomas frowned. Clearly he was expecting bigger news. "Ill?"

"Do you have cotton in your ears? That's what I said! ILL!" she growled.

"Ill with what?" he asked, looking dumbfounded by all this.

"Spanish Flu," she lied. She wasn't going to tell him or ANYONE _that_ detail for as long as possible, so help her.

His eyes widened at this, and she saw his face go pale and fill suddenly with panic. "How?" he gasped. "Where did she get it from?"

Ah, now that she hadn't expected him to ask. She sometimes forgot that Thomas had experience as a medical officer and had worked with wounded and sick men at the hospital, before the house became a convalescent home.

Best to feign ignorance on that issue. "I don't know!" she groaned, throwing her hands up into the air. "She's ill and Dr. Clarkson wants to take her to a special facility he has in the village to heal."

"What?" he asked, looking even more shocked and confused by this piece of information. "He wants to move her? INTO THE VILLAGE?"

"Yes," Sarah ignored his tone. Clearly he thought the doctor daft. Of course, if he knew the whole truth, she suspected he would be all too happy to help the good doctor in the removal of her Ladyship from Downton to the village. "But his Lordship wishes for everyone, from his daughters to all members of staff, to believe she's still here, in the house, that she's been moved to the east wing."

Thomas' confusion was growing by the second. "Why? Why make that up?"

"Probably because his Lordship thought everyone would react the same way YOU just did, upon hearing that her Ladyship will be going into the village to the doctor's facility," she snarled, once again shaking her arm free from his grip.

Thomas eyed her suspiciously. The man could be a damn fool in many respects, but he was also quite clever; sometimes too clever.

"There's something you're not telling me…"

"I've told you everything!" she hissed, glaring at him, daring him to doubt her again. "Her Ladyship has Spanish Flu, she's going to a special facility back in the village, and I will be accompanying her."

Thomas' eyes widened. "You?"

"Yes!" she growled, her voice filled with challenge.

"You're no nurse—"

"I AM HER PROTECTOR!" she practically roared, her anger and anxiety nearly boiling over. She muttered a silent curse and then glanced down the corridor, both ways, making sure no one else had heard or was coming to investigate. "I may not have the medical training that you or Lady Sybil have, but I am her companion—"

"You're her lady's maid," he corrected, his eyes dark and narrowed as he glared back at her. Clearly he didn't appreciate her yelling at him. His words stung, but she paid them no heed.

"Same thing," she muttered. "I will watch over her, assist Dr. Clarkson, and see that she safely recovers."

He leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms over his chest. "And if she doesn't?" he asked, lifting a questioning eyebrow, curious to see how she would respond.

Sarah stiffened at the question, but lifted her chin, her eyes set and focused. "She will," she growled, daring him to argue otherwise. "I will see to it," she muttered, turning on her heel then and marching past him, before muttering one last time, just loud enough for him to hear, "even if it kills me."

* * *

Elsie Hughes was trying to balance too many things at once. She was carrying a fresh linens, towels, a basin, pitcher, and a basket of items that Lady Sybil thought her Ladyship would require and benefit from that had come from the medical supply cupboard in the Servant's Hall. But really, it was too much to carry at one time, and she wasn't surprised when her foot caught on the hem of her skirt while going up the servant's staircase, and she felt herself lose her balance.

Thankfully, a pair of hands was there to catch her waist and steady her.

"OH!" she gasped, clutching the basin and pitcher to her chest just in time. She turned and looked over her shoulder, and felt her face flush slightly at the sight of the formidable Downton butler.

"Have a care, Mrs. Hughes, have a care," he muttered, not releasing her until he was certain she upright.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Elsie murmured, turning her face away and concentrating on the items in her arms.

He cleared his throat, his hands finally falling away from her, and he fixed his eyes on all that she was carrying, frowning as he took everything in. "What's all this?"

"I'm taking them to the east wing," Elsie explained. "For her Ladyship's new room."

"Ah, of course," Mr. Carson murmured, looking down at the ground, his hands folding behind his back, a moment of silence passing between the two of them. He then lifted his eyes once again, his frown returning as he focused on the items, his hands now moving forward to take a few of the items from her. "You shouldn't be doing this all on your own; Anna and Ethel—"

"Are already busy," Elsie interrupted, trying to hide the roll of her eyes from Mr. Carson's watchful gaze. "Now that Mr. Napier and his friends are here, there are more beds to make and rooms to clean…" she sighed, her frustration over the entire situation clearly showing. "It's just too much to do for such a small staff, Mr. Carson!"

"I know, Mrs. Hughes, I know, I…" he sighed, and she could see that her groaning wasn't helping him or lessen his stress either. She sighed and wished she had a free hand to reach out and touch his arm, a small gesture but one which she knew he would understand. They had gotten very good with reading and understanding one another over all the years they had been serving the Crawley family.

"I'll help you," he began to offer.

Elsie's eyes widened. "Oh no, Mr. Carson, you shouldn't! You already have a great deal to do yourself, and this is no work for a butler—"

"Nor for a housekeeper," he added.

She sighed. "Perhaps not, but we're already down one footman and…" she paused as she realized the words that she had spoken. She felt a bubble of emotion catch in her throat and she bit her lip, hard, to keep the sadness that threatened to break forth, at bay.

Neither one of them spoke for a long time. They simply stood there, letting the sad reality of William's death once again wash over them.

"How is Mrs. Patmore this morning?" he asked, finally breaking the silence. "I understand Lady Sybil has been to see her?"

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "She…" she began, and once again closed her eyes and silently counted in her head to keep tight control on her emotions. "I…I honestly don't know if she's getting better or getting worse, Mr. Carson."

His brow furrowed, but there was obvious concern in the older man's eyes. "Is she speaking to anyone?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "She's awake, but…but I honestly don't know if she's aware of anything; she was sitting in her rocking chair, rocking back and forth and murmuring William's name over and over," she explained. "And Daisy…oh poor Daisy; in all honesty, Mr. Carson, I'm more worried for Daisy right now. She won't speak to anyone! She won't let anyone into her room; myself, Anna, no one. And…and I don't know if I should simply take a key to her door and force myself inside, or…or leave her be to grieve, I…I honestly don't know what to do!"

His hands reached out steady her once again, this time rest atop her shoulders, giving them an encouraging squeeze. "We'll figure it out, Mrs. Hughes, it will all work out."

But Elsie didn't believe him. He hadn't seen Beryl; he hadn't seen the state she was in. And no one had seen Daisy. And then adding to that everything else that had happened recently, it was truly just…too much for a person to bear!

"I don't know how much more this house can take," she whispered. "After everything its endured; and losing poor William, and now her Ladyship!"

"Her Ladyship will be alright," Mr. Carson insisted, giving her shoulders another squeeze. "Dr. Clarkson will see to her care and will dedicate all of his energy to helping her recover."

But once again, Elsie had doubts. "After everything that we've seen here; after all the different sorts of sickness, _now_ Spanish Flu invades these walls."

"But it will be contained!" Mr. Carson insisted again, trying to bring Elsie's attention back to him, to get her to look into his eyes and see his determined gaze. "Everything will be alright, Mrs. Hughes; it will! Downton still stands, and we stand strong within her!"

Elsie sighed and tore her eyes away. Only Charles Carson, and quite possibly the Dowager Countess, would use Downton as a metaphor of hope. Yet who was she to take that away from him? If he could find hope in the bricks and mortar of this place, then so be it. Yet sadly, it still didn't change anything. The world was still lost in its chaotic hell, they were still short-staffed with more mouths to feed than supplies they had, even after the recent run into the village, her Ladyship was still ill and William was still dead. Downton remained standing…but her inhabitants were dwindling.

"I wish I could believe that, Mr. Carson," she mournfully whispered. Her eyes held his for a long moment, and with a heavy heart, she turned then and began to continue her journey up the servant's staircase, a bit slower this time, but onward she went to go and prepare her Ladyship a room as she said she would.

"Elsie…"

She froze at the sound of her name. It was so unusual to hear him speak it.

She didn't turn around, but she did pause, waiting for him to speak. She heard him take a few tentative steps towards her, but stopped once again, just a few paces away.

"You don't mean that, surely…?"

Elsie sighed, and briefly turned her head to look over her shoulder, meeting his eyes once again. She saw such sadness and despair in them, and she hated herself for knowing she was the cause of it. Last night she had been a source of strength for him, as they sat together and mourned poor William. But the cold light of dawn had risen, bringing with a new day and a new reality, one where she saw little hope.

"I'm sorry Mr. Carson, I wish I didn't," she replied at last. "…But I can't help it."

* * *

She groaned as she furiously attempted to push the wretched strand of hair that kept falling across her brow out of her face with simply the use of her shoulder. It was not working. Yet she couldn't use her hands, as they were busily trying to chop vegetables for the stew she was going to attempt at making.

Attempt.

Sybil turned her eyes over to the pot of water that was simmering on the stove, praying that it didn't run the risk of boiling over. She had done that once before, back when Mrs. Patmore was teaching her how to cook. Daisy, thank heaven, had been there to rescue the pot that day, but neither cook or kitchen maid were there to watch over her meal making this time. She was completely on her own.

"So this is where you've been hiding?"

Sybil froze, her eyes widening as his voice filled her ears. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then finally opened them and lifted her head to the kitchen entrance, her back stiffening as she met his gaze.

"Larry…" she greeted, her tone civil, but cold.

He was smiling at her, that charming crocodile smile that had made several of her friends swoon when she was younger, but always caused her to lift an eyebrow in suspicion. Even though the Greys had long since been close friends of her family, she had never completely trusted Larry, or at least never completely trusted him to the point where she felt she could let her guard down, and for good reason, as she soon learned during her season in London. And now here they both were, alone again. Only this time she was holding a very sharp knife…

He continued to smile at her, although it softened a bit as he fully entered the room. _Gracious he was tall, _she thought as she looked up at him. She had forgotten how tall he was. He easily towered over her, and he may very well be taller than Matthew or her father (perhaps as tall as Carson!) Yet he lacked the muscle that Tom had. Tom made up for his lack of height in the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. Yes, she had a feeling that if either Larry or Tom got into some sort of fight, Tom would easily be the victor. _Unless of course Larry resorted to dirty tactics_, which she honestly wouldn't put past him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his eyes finally falling to the table in front of her. He was frowning slightly, and looking a bit confused.

_What does it look like?_ She was tempted to respond thusly, but decided against it. No sense in starting a fight if it could be avoided. "I'm trying to make luncheon," she explained. "Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are not well, so I assured them that I would take care of it."

Larry's frown deepened. "But…but surely one of the housemaids could do it—"

_"I_ want to do it!" she snapped, her eyes glaring up at him. If Larry Grey thought she was the same, naïve debutant he had danced with in London six years ago, he was sorely mistaken. The War had hardened her, and what happened after it had hardened her further. She could shoot a pistol now, and she had fought and killed Walkers with the use of her own physical strength. She had faced death numerous times, and every time she walked away, she grew stronger.

No, Larry Grey was not speaking to the same girl she had once been. And it was time he learned that.

"Anna, Ethel, and Mrs. Hughes have far too much to do, especially now that you have arrived," she practically spat. "The last thing they need is more work piled on top of them. I have two hands; I am capable of working and fixing a meal! While my cooking skills are certainly nothing compared to Mrs. Patmore's or Daisy's, I do have some knowledge and therefore—"

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he apologized, and Sybil's eyes flew back to his, surprised at the tone in which he spoke.

Indeed, she was most surprised to see the look on his face in general. He seemed…_genuinely_…apologetic. And he was holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. He was being very…well, he wasn't being like the Larry Grey she once knew.

_Perhaps he has changed as well?_

She shook her head, her suspicion returning and still eyeing him warily. He must have noticed, however, because he quickly froze and stood where he was, his hands lowering and folding behind his back, as if he were speaking to a fellow military officer. "Forgive me, I did not mean to belittle you or your skills with my question," he murmured, lowering his eyes and looking away from her. "I um…I was surprised, that's all," he lifted his eyes and attempted to offer her a smile. "That is very kind of you; to help, I mean."

Sybil snorted at this, although in all honesty, she didn't feel it was right to throw the words back into his face. Still, she met his gaze, adopting the steel one that Mary perfected. "It's not 'kind'; it's right and decent," she muttered, returning her attention to the vegetables in front of her. "We all have our parts to play, not just the staff," she continued. "The world in which we live now is not the same as before, and it's time that we all accept this and work together! These silly roles that we've developed of who belongs on what floor of the house, and who serves who, and wears the title of 'master' and 'servant', are utterly ridiculous—"

"Your water is boiling over."

Her eyes went wide at his words, and she turned then and gave a great "OH!" before turning and grabbing two dish rags to grip the heavy handles of the pot and move it away from the stove, hissing in pain as some of the water splashed onto her hand.

Larry rushed around the table to her side. "Are you alright?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"NO!" she snapped, stepping away from him before he could reach out and examine her pink hand which she was clutching to her chest.

He took a step away, once again holding up his hands as a sign that he meant no harm, her response clearly shaking him. "I'm sorry, of course, stupid question…" he mumbled, taking another step back. "I…clearly I'm not helping the matter," he attempted to chuckle at his own self-deprecation. "I um…I suppose I see what you mean."

Sybil bit her lip, a part of her feeling guilty in her treatment of him. "What I mean?" she asked, not quite understanding what he meant.

"Well…you said that your staff has far too much work to do, especially…especially now that Evelyn, Charles, and I are here…" his voice trailed off slightly. "I suppose…in your eyes it would have been better if we had never come in the first place."

Sybil inwardly groaned. The guilt she had started to feel began to grow more and more. Yet at the same time, she didn't contradict him either. And certainly last night, when he had swept her up into his arms and swung her around the others, declaring the two of them engaged, she most certainly was wishing that he had never come. But as she looked at him, truly looked at him…she was starting to realize that the tall, dark haired man standing before her in a tattered military uniform, truly was a different person to the dark haired man in white tie and tails that had tried to steal kisses from her at her coming out ball.

_I am not the same girl I was then. Perhaps…perhaps he truly has changed as well?_

But a frown quickly crossed over her features as she recalled the previous evening, how he had called her his fiancée, and the story her father had shared, where Larry had gone to him at the garden party all those years ago, and asked for her hand without giving her any hint that he would do so…

"We are NOT engaged, Larry," she stated, her voice firm and her chin lifted high. "Do you understand?"

His eyes held hers, and Sybil felt her throat constrict slightly as she saw what looked like…actual embarrassment, as well as…regret?

"Of course," he murmured, surprising Sybil even more. Of course? He wasn't…going to argue with her? "I…I do beg your pardon," he continued, looking down once more at his feet. "Please forgive me, the last thing I meant to cause you last night was any sort of embarrassment or discomfort…" he paused for a moment and then looked up at her once again. "I…I confess, I was simply…I was overwhelmed at seeing you again, and…and all these memories came rushing back to me, and you are just as beautiful as I remember—"

"Larry, please," she didn't want to hear him talk about her thusly. She didn't want to think that there was a part of him that was still…Lord, she prayed it wasn't love, surely it couldn't be love, but…infatuation. She didn't want to believe he was still infatuated with her, after all these years.

"Of course, of course," he murmured, lowering his eyes again. "I spoke out of turn…both just then and last night. I had no right to make such a declaration, especially without speaking to you first."

"Nor did you have any right to ask for my hand in the first place!" she stated firmly. "My father told me how you had gone to him at the garden party, the day when war was declared. You spoke to him as if we were sweethearts with an understanding!"

"Yes, I know, and I see that it was wrong, I understand that now!" he answered, his eyes meeting hers, pleading with hers, and once again she saw regret fill their depths.

It was startling, to say the least. Indeed, he was nothing like how she remembered.

"Sybil…" he began, leaning as if he were going to take a step towards her, but quickly pulled back. "I…I do remember my behavior to you…" he went on, his face burning with shame. "And I don't mean my ill behavior in going to your father at the garden party, but I…I mean my behavior to you at your ball."

"Larry—"

"I was a cad, Sybil," he stated, swallowing his shame and lifting his eyes once again to meet hers. "I forced myself upon you when it was not wanted, and when you told me to cease, I did not listen. I said then that I was 'overwhelmed with passion', but that's no excuse. I was abominable; and…and I pray that you will forgive me, however I understand if you do not."

She swallowed, not sure what to say. She wasn't ready to forgive him, certainly, yet at the same time, the anger and distrust she had once felt towards him was nowhere near as strong as it once had been. In truth, she was confused. It was as if she were meeting two very different people, both of whom had the same face and voice and name, but whose personalities were completely different. It honestly confused her.

"So…so you understand then," she murmured.

"That we are not engaged?" he answered. "Yes, and I will be sure that everyone knows and understands; I will speak to them all this evening, when we gather at dinner. I will make my apologies public, and beg your forgiveness once more—"

"That's not necessary," she interrupted, feeling slightly embarrassed at the thought of being made a spectacle. "But…but I do appreciate your willingness to set the record straight," she whispered.

He smiled then, but it was a sad smile, and despite what her mind was screaming, she felt her heart swell with pity for the man, for this "other" Larry.

"Very well," he murmured, bowing his head slightly. He took a step back, but paused for a moment, his eyes falling to the table where the vegetables lay that she had been chopping. "Would you care for some help?"

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him in shock. Had Larry Grey offered to…to help her with what he once would have seen as a menial task reserved for people far beneath him? Good God, who was this man?

"I'm overstepping myself again, aren't I?" he asked, looking a bit sheepish. "My apologies, I will leave you alone—"

"No, I mean," she paused, wanting to get the words right. She still wasn't sure if Larry continued his infatuation for her; nothing he had said indicated that he didn't, therefore she did not wish to encourage him. However, at the same moment, it was clear he wanted to make amends…and didn't all creatures deserve a second chance? Redemption was always possible…even, perhaps, with men like Larry Grey. "I mean," she continued. "That would be…most helpful, actually; thank you."

He smiled then, and this time it was similar to the smile he had given her upon first entering the kitchen, a smile that no matter how hard she squinted, she could not see any trace of that crocodile charm.

_I truly think he has changed; he is not the man he once was! _

And for the first time since being reunited with him…she actually found herself smiling back.

* * *

Tom was desperate to keep himself busy, to keep himself sane!

His mind was split in two; a part of him needing to leave and return to the village, to return and search for his brother who was still out there, still alive, if barely. Kieran, who had endured tremendous pain at cutting off his own hand to escape his imprisonment…before enduring further pain by burning his flesh to stop the bleeding. His brother could be lying in a ditch somewhere, unconscious, on the brink of death due to blood loss and the shock of the pain, at the mercy of monsters. He loved his brother; he _owed it_ to his brother to find him, to carry on as they had always planned…

But the other part of him was yearning for the beautiful woman who had unexpectedly captured his heart, who he had bonded and grown incredibly close to in the short amount of time that they had known each other. He felt as if he had known Sybil Crawley his entire life; and it felt so natural to hold her, to feel her body lying next to his, to kiss her…sweet Jesus in heaven, to kiss her. He had not lived the life of a monk; his record was nothing compared to his brother, but Tom Branson was not a stranger when it came to women and a frantic tumble upon a mattress or in a hayloft. But all of his past experiences couldn't begin to hold a candle to all the emotions that were running through his head and his heart (and his body) when it came to Sybil. And there was only one explanation: love.

And God above, that frightened him. That frightened him more than facing an entire horde of hungry Walkers with no weapon in his hands.

_I can't lose her…but can't bear the thought of seeing her hurt, or worse…transformed into one of _those things_ like William. It would be best for the both of us if I left…and yet the thought of not seeing her again, the thought of not holding her, of not speaking to her—the thought of being parted from her makes it difficult to breathe!_

But if he stayed, what about his brother? He would be dead, several times over, if it hadn't been for Kieran! Kieran had looked after him, long before all of this had happened, back when they were both working at the garage in Liverpool, and he was still a lad. Kieran had been the father he never had, the man who taught him how to drive, how to shoot, how to survive. Family was all that mattered, and that was all they needed, or so Kieran had told him repeatedly.

Just each other: the Branson brothers.

No, it wasn't even a question; he _had_ to find Kieran. But then what? Bring him back to Downton? No…that would not be good for anyone. Liverpool and all that had happened there was still fresh on his mind, and Tom did not want that to be repeated here at Downton. No…bringing Kieran to the Crawley's home was a very bad idea.

York. That had always been the plan; they would go to York.

And Sybil?

Would she go with him if he asked her? But even if she did, it would mean taking her away from her family, and if family meant so much for both he and his brother, then surely it meant a great deal to Sybil!

Oh God, what had he gotten himself into? What was he going to do?

He was desperately trying to distract himself by working on one of the engines in the garage, hoping and praying that would somehow delay these thoughts from bombarding him, when he heard footsteps on the gravel outside.

He froze, reaching for a nearby wrench, weighing it in his hand, satisfied that a heavy blow with such a tool would surely kill something that wanted to devour human flesh.

"Branson? Are you in there?"

Tom froze, dropping the wrench. "Your Lordship?" his brow furrowed in confusion as he took in the sight of the Earl of Grantham, nervously looking about, as if trying to see if there was anyone else nearby, before finally stepping into the garage.

"I need you to drive us," he explained in a hushed voice, his tone laced with desperation.

Tom took an instinctive wary step back. "Drive you?" he repeated. "Drive you…where?"

His Lordship looked unsure, as if trying to assess how much to tell him. He sighed and lifted a hand to his face, rubbing the palm across it and up into hair, a gesture Tom recognized as a man who realized he was at a crossroads or his last rope. It was a look that he himself had been wearing shortly before his Lordship called out to him.

"Alright, this cannot go beyond this place, do you understand?"

Tom frowned. _This is serious; I'm a complete stranger, and yet he's fully prepared to share something with me that he doesn't want anyone else to know; to put trust in my confidence!_ Some no doubt would be flattered by such a revelation, but Tom felt wary. Even warier than how he had felt when his Lordship began speaking to him.

"Aye…" Tom replied, although with great hesitance.

If his Lordship had noticed his hesitancy, he paid it no heed.

"Cora—Lady Grantham," he explained. "She…she was bitten yesterday."

Tom's eyes widened and his mouth fell open, his face paling at the realization to what his Lordship had just told him.

Bitten. Bitten by a Walker. Oh God, she was doomed, just like William!

"Dr. Clarkson believes he can cure her."

Tom froze, his mind pausing from his thoughts about Lady Grantham's fate and what had happened yesterday in the village, focusing now on what his Lordship had just said. _Cure her?_

"But in order for him to do that, she needs to be taken to a special facility that he has in the village; a lab, if you will."

A lab. A place where a corpse would be reanimated. Good God, this was like the sort of thing one would read out of a horror story!

"So I need you to drive us to the village," his Lordship concluded, his hands grasped firmly behind his back, his chin lifted high and his eyes focused and steady on Tom's, but Tom could see his chin trembling ever so slightly, like he was desperately trying to keep control on his emotions.

_The man is falling apart, _he thought to himself. And why wouldn't he be? Wasn't he just thinking moments ago that if anything horrible happened to Sybil…like being bitten by a Walker, he would go mad with grief?

A thousand questions were swirling in Tom's head, yet the one he found himself asking was simply, "Us?"

Lord Grantham looked surprised, and then straightened himself, swallowing back whatever emotion had threatened to show, and replied curtly. "Yes, myself, Lady Grantham, her maid, and Dr. Clarkson."

Tom's mind flew back to something his Lordship had said earlier, about how this couldn't be spoken anywhere else, that he was trusting Tom with this information and that it needed to remain where it was. Did that mean that he was the only other person, besides the ones Lord Grantham had just mentioned, that was aware of her Ladyship's condition?

"What about…what about Capt. Crawley?" What about Sybil? This was her mother, for God's sake!

"No," his Lordship replied quickly. "No, I…I think it best that we keep this as quiet as possible."

Tom felt as if a stone had dropped somewhere in his stomach. He also felt as if a massive yoke had been placed upon his shoulders, and he was being forced to drive through a field, carrying this tremendous weight behind him.

It was as he feared; he was the only other person, besides the doctor and Miss O'Brien, who knew that her Ladyship had been bitten. And he was being asked to keep silence, silence from two people he had grown very close to, one in particular that he believed he had fallen in love with.

"Well?" Lord Grantham interrupted his thoughts. "How soon can the car be ready?"

Tom looked up at the man, unsure how to answer because he was still trembling with disbelief at the whole situation! "You said…'keep this as quiet as possible'…what do the others know?"

Lord Grantham stiffened. "That really isn't any of your concern—"

"It is!" Tom interrupted, feeling his anger flair at the dismissive way in which he was being spoken to. He knew his Lordship did not seem as an equal in any way, shape, or form, but he would be damned to be spoken to in such a way, especially after being asked to drive a sick woman, the mother of the woman he loved, to some strange and secret location at the risk to his own and their lives, knowing that the sickness she suffered from was the very real and horrifying possibility that she would transform the same way William and all those other poor souls had, after being bitten. He needed to know everything.

Both Tom and Lord Grantham stared back at each other, neither blinking, neither moving, their faces practically set in stone. Lord Grantham did seem a bit surprised at the way he was being spoken to, however Tom stood his ground and remained firm in his question. At last, his Lordship answered.

"They believe she suffers from Spanish Flu," he explained in a calm, even voice.

"Why not tell them the truth?" Tom countered.

His Lordship looked extremely irritated by these questions, but Tom refused to relent. "Because…because I do not want to start a panic!" the man hissed. "Especially after recent events!"

Recent events. He meant William.

"Look," Lord Grantham took a step towards him, and Tom stiffened even more, a part of him instinctively moving towards that wrench he had been holding prior to his Lordship's arrival. "I need someone to drive us into the village; I would do it myself if I could! But my hands are tied on that matter, and…" that emotion Tom had seen earlier was threatening once to break once again. "I will do anything—ANYTHING—to save my wife!" he snarled.

But can she be saved?

"You really think this doctor has some magical cure—"

"I said I would do ANYTHING, didn't I?" his Lordship snapped. "If Dr. Clarkson believes he can save her, but that the best way to do that is to take her to his lab in the village, then so be it! I will do that! BECAUSE I LOVE HER! Just as you love your brother and continue to keep vigil for him, I will do whatever I can…" he had to pause then, his fist flying to his mouth and turning his head away before Tom could see the vulnerable state in which the Earl of Grantham had been reduced to: human.

All men, great and small, can love and grieve.

This was perhaps the first time since knowing the man, that Tom truly found himself respecting the Earl.

Lord Grantham took several deep breaths before once again turning his face back to look at Tom. He eyed the Irishman for a moment, and then suddenly tactics were changed. "You care for Lady Sybil…"

Tom's own eyes widened at the words. Were they an accusation? Oh Lord, did he know about…about last night?

"I know that the two of you have formed some sort of…strange friendship…" he went on, causing Tom to shift somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. Yes, that much was true (although only in Lord Grantham's eyes, Tom was sure, would he see such a friendship as strange). What the man didn't know was that this "strange friendship" was quickly elevating into something deeper.

"If you care for her, for Lady Sybil…" his Lordship clarified. "And for Capt. Crawley," he added, knowing that was the other close friendship Tom had to house. "Then you will do this for me, to save Cora," he finished, a clear plea in his voice, but also a clear threat, too.

Someone needed to drive her Ladyship to the doctor's lab so that he could "save her life", if that were possible. And Tom was the only option his Lordship had. And if he refused…then in essence, he was killing the mother of the woman he loved. And images of his sweet Sybil, mourning over yet another grave, weeping and clinging to him as her body shook with grief…no, no, he could not bear seeing her like that again.

He lifted his eyes to Lord Grantham, and suddenly the weight of that invisible yoke became the world which Atlas was forced to hold up.

"I can have the car ready in an hour," he whispered.


	33. Threats

_Thanks for your patiance everyone! Here's the next installment and the plot continues to get thicker and possibly a little more troublesome for some characters. Don't have much else to say, so I'll leave it at that and let you read. Hope you enjoy and please share your thoughts! Thanks as always for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Thirty-Three_

"**Threats"**

Downton was a very large house, with plenty of rooms and corridors for one to lose themselves in. Yet it seemed to be Mary's luck that no matter which room or corridor she found herself, her suffocating fiancée was always two steps behind. This was true after she came to see Mrs. Hughes, to inspect the room that the housekeeper was preparing for her mother, and upon exiting the room, discovered Sir Richard, sitting and patiently waiting in a chair just outside.

"You can't avoid me forever," he murmured to her, his eyes never once leaving her face.

He had an uncanny way of doing that; just…looking at her and unnerving her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered, moving past him at a swift pace. However, if her answer was meant to be the end of the conversation, it clearly did not register with Sir Richard Carlisle. If anything, he took it as a long-awaited invitation.

"Allow me to explain, then," he rose to his feet and his pace was soon matching hers. "You hardly speak to me or look at me; you flee to your room and lock the door when no one else is around—"

"Oh you are exaggerating!" Mary groaned. "I do not 'flee to my room'."

"But you admit you avoid my company…"

"I am not avoiding your company!" she muttered in exasperation.

"Oh really? And what do you call this?" he challenged, hinting at the way she refused to simply stand and have a conversation with him.

"Sir Richard, this is hardly the time or the place," she muttered, her feet still moving at the brisk pace she had begun.

He gritted his teeth and without a second thought, reached out and grabbed her by the elbow, before pulling her into an empty, nearby room.

"Then we shall _MAKE_ it the time and place," he growled, his eyes glaring back at her as he pushed her away and slammed the door shut behind them.

Mary gasped and stared in horror as she watched Sir Richard block her exit, purposefully standing with his back against the door, his hands on the doorknob. Her eyes instinctively began to scan the room, looking to see if there were any connecting doors that she could use for her escape if the need arose.

"Well?" he folded his arms across his chest. "I'm waiting…"

She stared at him incredulously. "Waiting? For what? YOU were the one who insisted we speak! Who threw me in here—"

"Are you still in love with Matthew Crawley?" he growled, taking a threatening step towards her, though his arms remained folded across his chest. Mary stared at the man she had once proudly called her fiancée (or as proudly as a person could feel when they were mourning the loss of another). She knew that Sir Richard could be ruthless, but she had always thought that was simply part of his "business persona", a reputation he wanted to uphold in public, but in the privacy of his own home and behind closed doors, such reputations did not matter.

How wrong she had been.

And yet despite the sounds of warning going off in her head, she stood her ground and lifted her chin. She was cornered, trapped in this room with him barring the door, just like she was trapped in this infernal engagement to a man she didn't love—perhaps never loved. Well, when one was cornered one could only do two things; surrender…or fight back. And Lady Mary was never one to surrender.

"My mother is ill," she began, her dark eyes boring deeply into his. "She could even be dying. My father is in great distress, and there are mouths to feed and people to protect. And yet despite all that…you insist that we do this _now?"_

His eyes were like slits as they glared back at her. "You speak as if this is the first time I've dared to ask you that question, when we both know that's false."

Indeed, she still remembered that argument they had had when not so long ago, Sir Richard had left Matthew to fend for himself at the hospital, and she had angrily confronted him about it. He had "accused" her of still being in love with Matthew. Then, she had denied it, but she knew also that she was confused and trying to make sense of the feelings that were raging through her heart. Now…everything was becoming clearer and clearer, and not just in the sense of who she loved, but also who _she was_ in this nightmarish world…and the part she had to play in it.

"Your question is a trap," she replied, cool and calm, despite the rage she was feeling, boiling deep in her blood. She had clearly surprised him with her response, judging by the way his eyebrows rose. "If I say 'no', you will not believe me. You will insist that I am and attempt to threaten me until I blurt out 'yes'. So whether I answer with a simple 'yes' now or later, it does not matter; you are convinced, and therefore feel it necessary to bully and frighten me, for what purpose I'm not sure, as it will do very little to change my mind or my heart."

"So you ADMIT then that you love him?" he snarled, taking another threatening step towards her.

"I admit that you have fallen a great deal in my estimation, Sir Richard," she snarled back. "You have allowed your own feelings of jealousy and inadequacy to rule you. Even before Matthew returned, the way you would hover, the way you would insist on following me like a shadow, the way you would meddle and 'be my voice', rather than allow me to speak or think for myself!" she boldly took a step towards him, lifting her chin and meeting his glare with one of her own. "You brought this upon yourself long before Matthew's return."

"WHY do you refuse to answer the question!?" he seized her shoulders then, and Mary gasped, but continued to stand her ground, refusing to scream for help. She was tired of letting Matthew or others come to her rescue. She would take a page out of her baby sister's book; a woman couldn't always depend on a man to come running and fight off the monsters that threatened her safety. Sometimes she had to destroy them herself. And after everything her family had endured of late, she was not about to let Sir Richard Carlisle be the one to destroy her.

"Would it have mattered if I had agreed to marry you anyway?" she asked him, her eyes never leaving his, never blinking, despite the rage she saw in them. "I don't seem to recall you demanding my 'love' when you first proposed. You wanted a partner, you thought we were equally matched and would suit one another well, and once upon a time, I believed you to be right! And even though my heart was still trapped in the past, I thought it may be possible; perhaps someday I could share it with you. But despite all your talk about 'partners', that truly wasn't what you were looking for. You didn't want a partner, I'm not even sure if you wanted a wife! You wanted a possession, and I was perfect in that sense!"

She brought her hands up then to his chest, and shoved herself free from his grasp. He seemed to be so stunned by her words that he hadn't realized that she had slipped out of his powerful grip until she had taken several steps away from him. Yet nothing about her stance or her glare said that she was intimidated by him. Who was this woman? This was not the same Mary Crawley to whom he had proposed to all those years ago, or to whom he stood by in the library at tea, or who he sat by at the breakfast or dinner table. She was a stranger!

…Or perhaps this was who she had always been?

"You led me on," he growled. "You used me; you lied to my face, telling me you didn't have feelings for him—"

"I lied to myself," she bit back. "I thought I didn't care anymore, that I was finished with him, but I see now that I never had been—I don't know if it's possible that I ever would! Once I thought it possible; once I may have even lied to myself to want to believe it, but I know better now. And for that, Sir Richard, I apologize; I should _never_ have accepted your proposal in the first place, so for 'leading you on' in that sense, then yes, I am sorry. However," she countered, her eyes penetrating through his own, straight into his very soul. "I will not stand here and be accused of a crime that you yourself are also guilty of. We used each other; I used you to heal a wounded heart, you used me with hopes that a connection to the English aristocracy would bring you power. Well…there is no point in carrying on this charade, is there? The aristocracy is gone—the world in which we knew is gone. There are no newspapers, there is no London! England is a wasteland and we are all survivors! And since I cannot give you what you wanted, it is best then that we stop pretending and…and end it."

She was breathing deeply, holding firm to her words and keeping her head held high_. I've done it,_ she realized to her shocked self. _I've just told Sir Richard Carlisle that our engagement is a sham; that it's over._ There was no going back now, even if she had wanted to.

He seemed to be in just as much shock. Clearly he had thought that if this were to happen, he would be the one holding all the cards, the one wielding the power of dismissal if it came to that. He certainly hadn't been expecting her to do what she had just done! Or for her to look so determined after declaring it.

"So…" he spoke slowly, his posture stiff and his jaw square. "Just like that…it's over."

Good heavens, what more did he want from her? To burst into tears and become a blubbering mess? To beg for his forgiveness and offer every sort of apology under the sun? For her to tell him he was right, that he had been right all along? Yes, no doubt that was what he wanted more than anything. Well she wasn't going to give him that satisfaction; none of it.

"Yes," she answered, after taking a deep breath. "I see no point in pretending or making either of us miserable—"

"MISERABLE!?" he bellowed, which caught her by surprise and did cause her to jump. "Miserable…?" he snarled again, and despite the brave and determined face she had put on when he pulled her into this room, she felt fear grip her heart, and once again her eyes flew to either side of the room to see if there was a side door for her to escape.

His face was dark, as were his eyes, full of angry fire and he said, in a low deep voice, his accent thick as he took one step towards her, but no more. "You don't know misery," he growled. "You haven't even begun to taste it…"

And then…without another word, he abruptly turned on his foot and threw open the door, before leaving her standing there, staring at his retreating back, the door slamming behind him and causing the paintings that hung on the walls to shake from the force.

A long, ragged breath escaped her lungs, and Mary reached out, gripping a nearby bedpost to steady herself, swallowing and trying to regain her composure after the confrontation.

She had just ended her engagement to Sir Richard; truly, there could be no doubt that it was truly over between them. Oh if only it were possible to feel relief.

The problem of course, was that unlike in their old world, he couldn't just "leave", nor would he. He would say that they—that she, owed him that much for all the help he had provided when the chaos began. To cast him out now would be like delivering a death sentence, and even she wasn't that cruel. Still…that meant he was still under the same roof as the rest of them, and while Downton was a large house, it wasn't large enough to avoid him completely. And the vow he had just made, a clear threat that she would regret this decision, did leave her feeling unnerved.

And yet, despite it, she refused to go to Matthew and demand his "protection". Nor would she burden her father with this; he had enough on his mind with their mother. No…no, this was her own mess. Sir Richard was her enemy and hers alone. And she could fight her own battles.

Still…if she had the choice, she knew she would rather face the humiliating effects of the "scandal of the century" for what had taken place between herself and Mr. Pemuk, than endure Sir Richard Carlisle's vengeful glare another night longer in this house.

* * *

Anna sighed as she finished making up Capt. Napier's bed…entirely by herself. She groaned as she picked up the dirty sheets that lay in a messy pile on the floor, before giving the room one last quick inspection, before leaving and shutting the door.

That had been the third room she had done completely by herself. Ethel usually helped her, and together they could accomplish a great deal more and have all the bedrooms finished before luncheon, but for some reason, Ethel "insisted" that the job would go faster if they split tasks, especially since now the Crawleys had "guests" staying. Anna rolled her eyes; she shouldn't have agreed. She had noticed the way Ethel eyed Maj. Bryant ever since he had arrived, and that was the room she had gone to clean when she had made their suggestion. And Anna hadn't seen her since! She just hoped and prayed Ethel wasn't doing anything stupid…

"Anna!"

She turned at the sound of her name and saw the very woman she was thinking about, rushing quickly towards her down the corridor, her own arms holding a bundle of yesterday's sheets. "Where have you been?" she hissed. "Please don't tell me that you've in Maj. Bryant's room this _whole_ time?" Anna groaned, fixing the ginger-haired housemaid with a somewhat accusatory stare. "I've done Capt. Crawley's, Miss Swire's, I just finished Capt. Napier's, and I still have Lady Mary's and Lady Edith's…" she shifted the bundle of sheets she was holding which were beginning to slide out of her arms. "I have no idea when we'll be able to get to his Lordship and her Ladyship's room—"

"Oh Anna," Ethel interrupted, rolling her eyes and walking past her. "There's more to life than doing one's job you know."

Anna frowned and began to follow Ethel. It was true that she and Ethel had never completely gotten on or seen eye to eye, certainly not in the same way Anna had with Gwen, God rest her soul. And Ethel had always grumbled about how the others (meaning the Crawleys) needed to adapt and change with the world, especially now with everything that had happened in the last year or so.

But there was something different about the way she spoke just now. As well as the way she looked and moved. There was a glow on her face, and a certain smile on her lips. And she walked as if she were…floating. And was she…humming to herself?

"What have you been up to?" Anna hissed, catching up with Ethel.

Any humming quickly came to a stop. "What?" Ethel asked, looking confused by Anna's sudden question, but Anna didn't miss the bright blush that colored her face.

"You're doing something you shouldn't be doing…" Anna murmured.

Ethel rolled her eyes. "Oh please," she groaned, lifting her nose up in the air, but also moving a little faster. "I have no idea to what you are talking about—"

"Are you and Maj. Bryant—?"

"Oh, so what if we are!?"

Anna practically slammed into Ethel by the abrupt way she had stopped. She stared back at the other housemaid whose expression was a cross between haughty pride and embarrassed shame. Clearly she thought she was a better liar and schemer than she truly was.

"Are you serious?" Anna gasped, looking at Ethel with wide-eyed horror. A part of her was praying and hoping that Ethel was merely teasing; trying to boast and brag like she had done in the past about leaving service and becoming a film star. But as she looked into the other woman's eyes (which were trying to avoid Anna's at all cost) she knew this wasn't some fantasy Ethel had made up to sound important. "Oh Ethel…" she whispered, shaking her head in disappointment.

"Oh stop it!" Ethel growled, her face flushed even brighter, but her eyes now lit with anger. "Don't you dare stand there and judge me! Don't you dare try and make me feel ashamed! Not everyone can be a perfect saint like you, Anna Smith!"

Anna actually stumbled backwards from the harsh words Ethel threw at her face. "I'm not—" she quickly lowered her voice, not wanting anyone else to overhear them, not that anyone else was nearby, so far as she knew. "I'm not judging you!" she defended, to which Ethel snorted, before turning and proceeding to continue down the corridor. Anna lifted her eyes skyward, summoning patience, before quickly following. "I'm not judging you, truly, I'm just worried—"

"I don't need you to worry about me!" Ethel snarled over her shoulder. "You're not my mother, nor are you Mrs. Hughes for that matter, so keep your worries to yourself!"

"Well I do worry, because I don't want to see you get hurt!" she attempted to reason once more.

Ethel groaned at this, but she didn't answer.

Anna persisted. "Look, I agree things are different now; it's not like…it's not like it was before," she tried to reason. "Meaning, that if the two of you were caught, it's like Mrs. Hughes or his Lordship would sack you, necessarily…" at least she hoped they wouldn't. No, no, surely not? After all, after everything that happened recently, his Lordship had every right to sack Thomas, or so Anna believed. She still blamed the former first footman for poor William's death. However, Thomas remained, as did Mr. Branson, even though he had tried to strangle Thomas. In some ways, Ethel was safer now than before, at least in the sense that she could feel secure that she wouldn't be thrown out into the harsh world beyond Downton Abbey to fend for herself while monsters walked and roamed the countryside.

But there were other sorts of dangers, and Anna wondered if Ethel had even considered those?

"Just…" she sighed, tired of fighting but at the same time feeling the need to tell her, just in case. "Just promise me you'll be careful, please?"

Ethel stopped again, but Anna was ready this time and avoided slamming into her. However, the look that the ginger maid was giving her wasn't like the harsh one she had worn earlier when she shouted at Anna. No, there was something haughty in her expression, the way she lifted a brow and tilted her chin. It was reminiscent of a look she had seen the Dowager Countess and Lady Mary wear.

"Have you spoken to Lady Sybil?" Ethel asked.

Anna was somewhat taken aback by this question. Taken aback…and confused. "Lady Sybil?" she repeated with a furrowed brow.

Ethel nodded, her haughty expression growing haughtier by the second. "That's right; she might be more in need of your lecture than myself."

Anna didn't like the way Ethel was talking. She had a close affinity with all the Crawley girls, and despite what Miss O'Brien had once said, there was a part of her that did think of them as more than just the daughters of her employer, but her…friends, as well.

"What are you going on about?" she asked, unable to hide the annoyance in her voice.

A grin began to spread across Ethel's face. A very knowing grin, like someone who had a secret they were dying to share. "I saw her last night…" she began. "Actually, it was early this morning—_very early,_" she emphasized.

Anna frowned at this. "What were you—Ethel, how long as this been going on between you two!?"

"Oh, never mind that!" Ethel groaned. "You're missing the point!"

Anna's frown only deepened. "And that is?" she asked, her annoyance and impatience only growing by the second.

"I told you, I saw Lady Sybil very early this morning…_on her way_ towards her room!" When Anna didn't respond, Ethel groaned a second time and stomped her foot. "Don't you see? She was going to her room! She was coming from someplace else!"

Anna rolled her eyes. "If you're implying that Lady Sybil of all people—"

"I know you like to think of all the Crawley daughters as heavenly saints like yourself," Ethel muttered, not bothering to hide her disdain. "But I know what I saw! Her clothes were wrinkled and her hair was down! Her cheeks were rosy too, as if she had just hurried back from somewhere, and the way she was tip-toeing through the corridor—"

"Alright, that's enough!" Anna all but barked, giving Ethel a dark look of warning. "I don't know what _you think_ you saw, but _I will not_ have you go repeat this to anyone, do you understand?"

Now it was Ethel's turn to look taken aback, but at the same time she lifted her chin, her eyes boring into Anna's. "Or what? You'll tattle on me?" she challenged.

Anna lifted her own chin defiantly, her voice low and dark as she once again warned the other housemaid. "You forget yourself, Ethel; you forget that you are basically threatening to slander the daughter of the man who is graciously offering you food and shelter and protection from the dangers that exist outside."

Her words were clearly having some effect, because she could see that Ethel's haughty resolve was beginning to weaken slightly, and her face paled somewhat at the truth behind what Anna was saying. Still, she stuck her nose up into the air, and clutching the sheets even closer to her body, turned and began to stalk away. Anna decided it was best not to interfere any further. Let Ethel have her snit and feel superior. However, she would need to keep a close watch on the woman; while there was a vindictive part of her that felt it would serve Ethel right if she and Maj. Bryant were caught by Mrs. Hughes, she knew that it was anger ruling her thoughts, just as her anger was clouding her judgment and feelings involving Thomas, presently. Yes, Ethel was her own person and therefore could make her own decisions and thus suffer from her own mistakes. But at the same time, while the world in which they lived was different from how it used to be, there were many things that hadn't changed; including when men of rank and station high above the likes of them had no problem in using their power and privilege in taking advantage of women who worked in service.

As for this business involving Lady Sybil…well, she didn't know what Ethel had seen, but she doubted it was what she was thinking.

Surely?

"You know Anna," Ethel called out to her, now standing just in front of the doorway that led to the servant's staircase. "If I were you, I'd go downstairs to the kitchens and act as chaperone."

Anna frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Ethel gave a smug smile. "Lady Sybil is there right now with Lt. Grey…you know, her _fiancée_?" she emphasized. "They looked awfully cozy and friendly to me; the last time I saw the both of them. Perhaps they're reminiscing about last night?"

Anna's eyes widened at this. "Bite your tongue!" she hissed, looking around wildly, fearing that someone would come around a corridor and catch everything that was being spoken.

Instead, Ethel poked her tongue out at Anna. "I'm just saying that not every engaged couple are repressed like you and Bates; some choose to live a little!" And before Anna could respond, the ginger-haired maid was already through the door, leaving her standing there with her mouth hanging open at both Ethel's allegation regarding Lady Sybil and Lt. Grey…as well as the painful and shocking jab about her and Mr. Bates.

* * *

Cora was thankfully asleep. Dr. Clarkson had given her some morphine to help combat the fever and the pain she would mumble about in her delirium, which thankfully began to have an effect not only after administrating it. However, as soon as he had given it to her, the doctor did warn Robert that they would have to move quickly, as because of her "disease", it wouldn't take long before the effects would wear off, and she would be awake again; awake and even more fitful than before.

She was getting worse. Robert didn't know, he could just tell. While they had waited for Branson to make ready the car, he had gone back to her room and watched as O'Brien tried to mop Cora's brow, tried to soothe her as she restlessly writhed atop the sweat-soaked mattress, mumbling incoherently, her eyes closed, but her face scrunched up and contorted in what could only be described as pain. It broke his heart to see her like this, and he yearned to do something—anything! But the only thing he could do was what Dr. Clarkson was suggesting. So as soon as O'Brien returned from the garage, telling him and Dr. Clarkson that Branson had the car ready, Dr. Clarkson wasted no time in administering the morphine, and Robert quickly picked her up, and as carefully as possible, carried her down to the where the car was waiting for them, on the east side of the house, away from everyone else, as Robert had told everyone to keep away from that wing.

O'Brien had gone before him, making sure the coast was clear before motioning for him and Dr. Clarkson to follow. They found Branson waiting nervously for them, and his face paled at the sight when Robert, holding the heavily sedated Countess of Grantham, emerged.

"Open the door!" O'Brien hissed, to which Branson finally snapped back to the present, and did just that. Robert went in first, still holding Cora, with O'Brien right behind him. Dr. Clarkson climbed into the front seat, sitting next to Branson, and who would supply the Irishman with directions on how to reach their destination.

The journey had been nerve wracking.

There were several moments when Robert was afraid Cora was going to wake up. She was still asleep, according to what Dr. Clarkson assured, however her breathing was becoming louder, and raspier, and she began to fidget a bit more the closer and closer they drew to the village. O'Brien hovered close, her eyes never once leaving Cora's face. She held a wet rag in her hands, one that she had soaked in cold water and that every so often she would apply to Cora's brow. Even though she paid him no heed, Robert found himself examining the lady's maid, and being thankful that despite his previous misgivings about her, she was, at the very least, very loyal to his wife's health and care. Even if he could not stay with Dr. Clarkson and observe Cora's recovery, he was glad that O'Brien would be there to tend to her every care.

"Turn here!" Dr. Clarkson commanded from where he sat. Robert looked up and noticed that they were nowhere near the hospital. That they were in truth driving away from it. "Just a little further," the doctor instructed, using his hands to point the way.

Branson nodded his head silently to the doctor's instructions, but he would every so often glance over his shoulder, his eyes falling on Cora's slumbering figure, whose fidgeting was growing more and more agitated by the second.

"How much further, Dr. Clarkson?" Robert asked, swallowing nervously as he looked down at his wife. Her face was beginning to scrunch up once more.

"We're nearly there, Lord Grantham!" he answered, his eyes on the road…if it could be called that. In truth, it wasn't so much as a road but a makeshift path of dirt and broken stalks of wheat. Where on earth…? Was this a farm?

Robert looked around, his brow furrowing. They were beyond the village now, although not too far away. Dr. Clarkson had Branson drive them off the road and through a wheat field. And just up ahead he saw what looked like a large, dilapidated barn, with a farmhouse attached to it.

Why did this place look so familiar to him? It been quite some time since Robert had toured the fields and farm houses of his tenants, but…there was something about this place…

"Stop the car over there!" Dr. Clarkson instructed, pointing to place near the barn, but closer to the north side of the farmhouse. As soon as Branson pulled the lever into park, Dr. Clarkson leapt out and came rushing around to where Robert sat, still holding Cora protectively as he eyed the farmhouse and barn with suspicion.

"You can't be serious?" Robert asked, looking at Dr. Clarkson, hoping the man was mistaken. When he had mentioned that he had a lab he thought…well…he didn't think a place like this! "Surely this isn't…?" he swallowed, clutching Cora a little tighter. "I mean…we're just gathering supplies here, yes?"

Dr. Clarkson sighed wearily and opened Robert's door. "If you want me to help her Ladyship, then I suggest you bring her and follow me, Lord Grantham."

Robert swallowed, not liking this at all, but a loud gasp escaped Cora's lips, lips that were now an ugly, ashen gray color, and without another moment's hesitation, followed Dr. Clarkson with O'Brien right behind him.

"Branson!" Robert barked over his shoulder to the Irishman who was looking nervously around the area himself, holding a rifle protectively to his side. His eyes were looking at the barn with some hesitance, but he turned towards Robert at the sound of his name. "Stay here with the car; I…I don't know how long we'll be, but just stay here." He didn't bother waiting for a response from the chauffeur; he simply turned his attention back to Dr. Clarkson, who was now standing over what looked like two double wooden doors positioned funnily on top of the ground, but semi-leaning into the house—

A root cellar?

"Dr. Clarkson?" Robert asked, his voice shaky in both confusion and denial. He didn't want to believe that this was where he was going to be leaving his wife!

However the doctor was too busy trying to open the cellar doors which Robert noticed were heavily chained. Good God, what did he have down there?

Cora was fidgeting even more. O'Brien continued hovering and dabbing at her brow, despite the odd angle in which she was lying as Robert did he best to keep her still as he held her. "Best hurry, doctor," O'Brien called out, her eyes ever focused on Cora, whose raspy breathing was sounding a great deal more…violent, than before.

"Nearly there!" Dr. Clarkson returned, his key unlocking the final chain, and then pulling them loose from the cellar handles. However, no sooner had he freed the door from its chains, did the door burst open, and everyone gasped as the barrel of a gun was pointed directly at Dr. Clarkson's chest.

"It's alright, it's alright John, it's me! It's me!" Dr. Clarkson reassured the man holding the gun. Robert's brow furrowed. _John?_

"It's alright Mr. Branson!" Dr. Clarkson called out, turning his head and lifting a hand towards the Irishman, who Robert had not even realized had come rushing to where they stood, his own rifle cocked and ready and aimed at the gunman who had threatened them the second Dr. Clarkson had unchained the cellar doors.

"Tell him to drop his weapon and I'll drop mine," Branson snarled, still holding his rifle in a threatening manner at the man whom Dr. Clarkson seemed to know, but who was still looking wary at the rest of them.

"It's alright, Mr. Branson, I assure you…" Dr. Clarkson sighed. "John, it's alright," he turned his attention back to the man with the rifle who was still halfway hidden by the cellar doors. However, the man finally seemed to understand who was pointing his gun towards, because he suddenly lowered it, and then emerged fully into the sunlight from the cellar, his grizzled face coming into view for Robert to see at last.

_I know that man. I've seen him before…_

"Richard?" the man gasped, and without hesitation, engulfed Dr. Clarkson in a fierce hug. Robert watched the exchange, still confused, perhaps more confused than earlier. Who was this man? Why did Robert have a feeling that he knew him? And…how was it that Dr. Clarkson knew him and knew this place?

Branson was still standing nearby, his gun lowered slightly, but only just slightly. "It's alright," Robert said over his shoulder to the Irishman. "We'll be fine, just…stay near the car."

Branson frowned, muttered something under his breath, but finally turned and walked away. Meanwhile, the man who was embracing Dr. Clarkson finally leaned away, his large hands grasping the doctor by his shoulders, looking at him with confused eyes. "Where have you been? It's been days, I…I was worried that something had happened—?"

"It's a long story, and I promise I will tell you everything, but we really must get inside, John, please?" Dr. Clarkson pleaded, glancing at Robert as he struggled to hold Cora steady. She was waking up…

The man who Dr. Clarkson was talking to seemed to finally realize that there were others standing nearby, and he moved his eyes then and caught Robert's gaze. Robert still couldn't quite say who the man was, however he was unnerved by the way the man, John, was looking at him.

"By the saints…" the man gasped. "Your…your Lordship?"

Robert took a tentative step back, his eyes darting to Dr. Clarkson's. However, the other man only smiled, and continued to approach, completely oblivious to Robert's discomfort. "Your Lordship, you're alive! I…I didn't know anyone connected to the big house was still alive! I've heard all sorts of stories—attacks that took place there and…" his voice trailed off as his eyes fell to Cora, whose breathing was growing increasingly more violent. "Oh no…it's happened to yours too?"

The man reached out towards Cora, but O'Brien was there, swatting his hand away, looking every bit the fierce protector. "Keep your filthy hands away from her!" she growled, before shoving the man back.

"I…I meant no harm," the man murmured, looking genuinely hurt. "Truly…" he turned his eyes back to Robert's. "I meant no harm, your Lordship; you do believe me, don't you?"

"It's alright, Lord Grantham," Dr. Clarkson tried to reassure, before turning his focus back to the other man. "John, we really must get inside."

The other man, John, turned his eyes back to Dr. Clarkson and mutely nodded his head. "Of course, of course," he mumbled. "Follow me, your Lordship; this way…" and with that, he moved ahead of them and descended the cellar steps.

Robert's eyes flew to Dr. Clarkson's. "Who is that?" he hissed.

Dr. Clarkson seemed surprised that Robert didn't know. "John Drake; this is his farm."

Robert's eyes widened at this revelation. John Drake? Yes…yes, he remembered the Drakes. He remembered his mother and Mrs. Crawley getting into an argument on how to best treat Mr. Drake when had been in the hospital. He also remembered lending them Pratt to drive their tractor, just after the War had started. But other than that, he hadn't had a great deal of interaction with them, certainly not as much as perhaps as a master should have with his tenants.

"You…you have been staying here?" he asked, his voice lowered, just in case Mr. Drake could still hear them. "This entire time, after everything happened in the village; THIS is where you have been?"

Dr. Clarkson sighed and nodded his head. "Yes, Lord Grantham; you see…when everything began to happen, the hospital became too hard to manage…and…and I…well, the Drakes' farm really became the only place that could…" his voice trailed off again, and Robert swallowed a cold lump in his throat. "Come, we need to get her inside," Dr. Clarkson motioned towards Cora.

Robert stared at the open cellar doors and the steps that led to who knows where, the steps that Mr. Drake had descended, and he clutched Cora even closer, suddenly feeling that the best thing to do was to get back into the car and demand that Branson drive them away as fast as possible, back to Downton—

And then what? What would happen to his beloved Cora then? She was sick, and if it were true, that the same fate that had befallen poor William was going to befall her…

"Milord," O'Brien's voice rang out like a bell, bringing him back to the present. She was looking up at him expectantly. "Milord, we must go," she told him in a very commanding voice, her hand pointing towards the steps.

He didn't want to. But what choice did he have? With a deep breath, Robert nodded his head, and carrying Cora, followed Dr. Clarkson and O'Brien down the cellar steps.

"This way!" Dr. Clarkson ordered, grabbing an oil lamp at the base of the steps, a lamp that had been lit and perhaps left for them by Mr. Drake, and encouraged Robert and O'Brien to follow. "Just through here!" Dr. Clarkson told them, and Robert could see from the light of the oil lamp a door that looked as if it led to a room just beyond. He obediently followed, and upon entering the room, was surprised by the amount of lights that filled it. Dozens of oil lamps were shining, Mr. Drake was in the room and lighting even more. "Lay her down just over there, Lord Grantham!" Dr. Clarkson ordered, pointing at what looked like a cot, pushed up against a nearby wall. Robert nodded and did just that, carefully laying Cora down, O'Brien standing nearby, looking ready to dive in if necessary.

The second Cora's back touched the cot, her eyes flew open…and Robert stumbled backwards at the sight.

Good God…her eyes! The blue that he loved, the life that he always saw in them…it was gone! Her eyes were a dull pale gray color, and they looked…

Dead.

No…no, no, it couldn't be. She wasn't…she couldn't be!

"Dr. Clarkson, Dr. Clarkson!" Robert hissed, pointing frantically at Cora, whose lifeless eyes were moving around the room, her ashen lips opening and strange, raspy sounds could be heard, along with her incoherent mumbling, the same mumbling she had done back at the house.

Dr. Clarkson looked up from the table where he was standing. It was then that Robert realized there were several tables, strewn out with all sorts of medical equipment he had seen in the hospital and at Downton when it was a convalescent home. He also noticed shelves filled to the brim with bottles of strange liquids, along with other medical supplies. Good heavens, what was going on in here? What sort of experiments was Dr. Clarkson conducting? And was he having any success?

"The transformation has begun," Dr. Clarkson murmured, observing Cora from where he stood.

"Well stop it!" Robert bellowed. "You said you could help her, so help her!"

"And I will!" Dr. Clarkson told him, pushing his way through, a syringe needle filled with a strange, amber-colored liquid. O'Brien eyed the syringe warily, and looked as if she were ready to launch herself at the doctor to stop him from delivering whatever the medicine was, but Robert called out to her, told her to let the man through, and so reluctantly she stepped aside.

"What…what is that?" Robert asked, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer, but hating that he was just…standing there, watching helplessly.

"It slows the process," a voice answered from behind him.

Robert turned, surprised by whoever it was that spoke, especially since it was a voice that belonged to a woman.

Who was she? Robert felt his breath leave him as he looked at her face; she was young, with dark hair and ice blue eyes. She stared back, and just like him her breath seemed to catch in her throat as well.

"Mrs. Drake?" Robert asked, assuming that could be the only answer to who this woman was.

The woman was surprised by his question, and quickly shook her head, before looking down at the ground in sadness.

"This is Jane, Lord Grantham," Dr. Clarkson explained as he emptied the syringe into Cora's twitching arm. "She's my assistant."


End file.
